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22:13:27','',0,'http://yvettemerton.com/?page_id=4',0,'page','',0),(5,1,'2008-11-16 03:01:43','2008-11-16 03:01:43','A selection of works:\r\n\r\nAfrican Solo\r\n\r\nChasing Germane\r\n\r\nThe Devil Has a Song\r\n\r\nFaces In The Storm Excerpt','Poetry',0,'','publish','open','open','','poetry','','','2008-11-23 15:06:01','2008-11-23 15:06:01','',0,'http://yvettemerton.com/?page_id=5',0,'page','',0),(6,1,'2008-11-16 03:01:16','2008-11-16 03:01:16','A selection of works:','Poetry',0,'','inherit','open','open','','5-revision','','','2008-11-16 03:01:16','2008-11-16 03:01:16','',5,'http://yvettemerton.com/?p=6',0,'revision','',0),(7,1,'2008-11-23 15:07:05','2008-11-23 15:07:05','A selection of works:\n\nAfrican Solo\n\nChasing Germane\n\nThe Devil Has a Song\n\nFaces In The Storm Excerpt','Poetry',0,'','inherit','open','open','','5-autosave','','','2008-11-23 15:07:05','2008-11-23 15:07:05','',5,'http://yvettemerton.com/?p=7',0,'revision','',0),(18,1,'2008-11-22 16:27:46','2008-11-22 16:27:46','A selection of works:\r\n\r\nScent\r\n\r\nAfrican Solo','Poetry',0,'','inherit','open','open','','5-revision-8','','','2008-11-22 16:27:46','2008-11-22 16:27:46','',5,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(19,1,'2008-11-22 16:34:27','2008-11-22 16:34:27','A selection of works:\r\n\r\nScent\r\n\r\nAfrican Solo','Poetry',0,'','inherit','open','open','','5-revision-9','','','2008-11-22 16:34:27','2008-11-22 16:34:27','',5,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(20,1,'2008-11-23 14:20:49','2008-11-23 14:20:49','Chasing Germane by Yvette Merton\r\n br>\r\nChasing Germane was never easy\r\nsubliminal boy, holding fingers\r\nletting go, tiny and disproportionate,\r\nquick-wit tackling wild hearts\r\nkeeping them gathered, only for him,\r\npulling petals from daisies\r\npulling fruit from its skin\r\nface plaster smile\r\nsitting stiff limbed like a sultana\r\non a lounge, pretending to listen.\r\nHe’d sigh at the right time\r\nhe’d ahh at the right time\r\nbut his mind…chasing the planes,\r\nhead nodding feverishly\r\ncounting the minutes, ten at best\r\nthen he’d flinch\r\nchasing his shadow,\r\nwarm on the concrete\r\nleaf in the breeze\r\nsucked by the wind\r\ndreadlocks matted\r\nhome for the insects\r\nchasing the clocks\r\nme, chasing him\r\n-steam locomotive-\r\nracing through tunnels\r\nnever giving up chasing Germane.','Chasing Germane',0,'','publish','open','open','','chasing-germane','','','2008-11-26 21:15:58','2008-11-26 21:15:58','',0,'http://yvettemerton.com/chasing-germane',0,'page','',0),(8,1,'2008-11-16 03:01:43','2008-11-16 03:01:43','A selection of works:\r\n\r\nPoem 1\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nPoem 2','Poetry',0,'','inherit','open','open','','5-revision-2','','','2008-11-16 03:01:43','2008-11-16 03:01:43','',5,'http://yvettemerton.com/?p=8',0,'revision','',0),(17,1,'2008-11-22 16:28:14','2008-11-22 16:28:14','African Solo by Yvette Merton\r\n\r\nYoung girl crouches outside under parched sun,\r\nshe scrapes the skin of the oats from the\r\nbottom of the pan.\r\nshe eats from its spilling as it slides through\r\nscrawny fingers.\r\n\r\nAfrican sky is boiling, hot dry heat, but still\r\nshe works, cooking, cleaning, removing dirt\r\nfrom blistered feet.\r\nFurrowed brow is alive with worry, vacant eyes\r\nyearn for something better she wipes the sweat\r\nfrom her face with a grubby sleeve, but things are\r\nwhat they are and she knows it.\r\n\r\nIn the village, chickens squawk, wealthier women\r\ngrace by with their swirls of coloured cloth, old men\r\nshade under sap-licked trees, the few trees there are.\r\nOnwards to market, rattan baskets balance perfectly\r\non tiny heads, wild yams pulled from the earth by\r\nfarmers sell to those who can afford it.\r\n\r\nGhetto air stirs, but the young girl crouching\r\nunder parched sun doesn’t belong, so she builds a\r\nworld behind her eyes.\r\nShe clanks the side of the pan with the remains\r\nof a wooden spoon, she becomes a soloist playing\r\nto the lyrical beat of metal on wood.\r\nDreams are all she has…\r\n\r\nConverging feet kick her sometimes, but she holds\r\nno pity for herself.\r\nNo one likes to listen, ears are shallow as caves here.\r\nChildren gather round, hands cupped waiting for a stray\r\nof fallen food, their bumping and jostling doesn’t\r\ndeter her.\r\nShe continues to beat with wooden spoon and metal pan\r\neven though the wood has splintered and her hand is cut.\r\n\r\nShe will wait till precisely the right time, then\r\nat night with the lull of evening drums,\r\ndirty earth slipping from tired feet will carry\r\nher, the soloist, and her instrument, away from\r\nthis town where she doesn’t belong.','African Solo',0,'','publish','open','open','','african-solo','','','2014-05-14 02:50:22','2014-05-14 02:50:22','',0,'http://yvettemerton.com/?page_id=17',0,'page','',0),(21,1,'2008-11-23 14:21:32','2008-11-23 14:21:32','The Devil Has a Song by Yvette Merton\r\n\r\nAll bones white hang from a coat\r\nouter skin labeled crisp shirts,\r\nI saw him dressed on a mannequin\r\nglass frontage my only escape\r\nviolin grooved between shoulders\r\nand plaster of Paris chin,\r\n\r\nFuneral music fiddled from strings\r\nhe unfolds an offering such flawless deception,\r\nwhen hairs on my neck stand up\r\nsurvival withstands the call of minstrels,\r\neye’s sideways rove, turning into his head\r\nexterior skin is perfect, untainted snow,\r\nwhile walking his fingers hold the bow\r\ndeep humming bumble bee drone.','The Devil Has a Song',0,'','publish','open','open','','the-devil-has-a-song','','','2008-11-23 14:21:32','2008-11-23 14:21:32','',0,'http://yvettemerton.com/the-devil-has-a-song',0,'page','',0),(9,1,'2008-11-16 04:18:39','2008-11-16 04:18:39','A selection of works:\r\n\r\nScent by Yvette Merton\r\n\r\n\r\nSuch a strange child inward hands did face\r\nFloss entwined around a loose tooth\r\nShe dreamt of Japan once,\r\nSaid she’d been there in another life\r\nThe devils got her good\r\nStruck her down still sleeping,\r\nShe talks of the skulls sensing a danger\r\nFalling down before her eyes,\r\nShe inhales the scent of blossom\r\nCarrying them into her lungs\r\nIn the morning when she awakes\r\nShe remembers nothing of her starving times\r\nKeeping quarrels neatly filed in secrecy,\r\nNow flushed cheeks seem renewed\r\nHer eyes light with halogen lamps.\r\n\r\nAfrican Solo by Yvette Merton\r\n\r\n\r\nYoung girl crouches outside under parched sun,\r\nshe scrapes the skin of the oats from the\r\nbottom of the pan.\r\nshe eats from its spilling as it slides through\r\nscrawny fingers.\r\n\r\nAfrican sky is boiling, hot dry heat, but still\r\nshe works, cooking, cleaning, removing dirt\r\nfrom blistered feet.\r\nFurrowed brow is alive with worry, vacant eyes\r\nyearn for something better she wipes the sweat\r\nfrom her face with a grubby sleeve, but things are\r\nwhat they are and she knows it.\r\n\r\nIn the village, chickens squawk, wealthier women\r\ngrace by with their swirls of coloured cloth, old men\r\nshade under sap-licked trees, the few trees there are.\r\nOnwards to market, rattan baskets balance perfectly\r\non tiny heads, wild yams pulled from the earth by\r\nfarmers sell to those who can afford it.\r\n\r\nGhetto air stirs, but the young girl crouching\r\nunder parched sun doesn’t belong, so she builds a\r\nworld behind her eyes.\r\nShe clanks the side of the pan with the remains\r\nof a wooden spoon, she becomes a soloist playing\r\nto the lyrical beat of metal on wood.\r\nDreams are all she has…\r\n\r\nConverging feet kick her sometimes, but she holds\r\nno pity for herself.\r\nNo one likes to listen, ears are shallow as caves here.\r\nChildren gather round, hands cupped waiting for a stray\r\nof fallen food, their bumping and jostling doesn’t\r\ndeter her.\r\nShe continues to beat with wooden spoon and metal pan\r\neven though the wood has splintered and her hand is cut.\r\n\r\nShe will wait till precisely the right time, then\r\nat night with the lull of evening drums,\r\ndirty earth slipping from tired feet will carry\r\nher, the soloist, and her instrument, away from\r\nthis town where she doesn’t belong.','Poetry',0,'','inherit','open','open','','5-revision-3','','','2008-11-16 04:18:39','2008-11-16 04:18:39','',5,'http://yvettemerton.com/?p=9',0,'revision','',0),(10,1,'2008-11-16 04:25:48','2008-11-16 04:25:48','A selection of works:\r\n\r\nScent by Yvette Merton\r\n\r\nSuch a strange child inward hands did face\r\nFloss entwined around a loose tooth\r\nShe dreamt of Japan once,\r\nSaid she’d been there in another life\r\nThe devils got her good\r\nStruck her down still sleeping,\r\nShe talks of the skulls sensing a danger\r\nFalling down before her eyes,\r\nShe inhales the scent of blossom\r\nCarrying them into her lungs\r\nIn the morning when she awakes\r\nShe remembers nothing of her starving times\r\nKeeping quarrels neatly filed in secrecy,\r\nNow flushed cheeks seem renewed\r\nHer eyes light with halogen lamps.\r\n\r\nAfrican Solo by Yvette Merton\r\n\r\nYoung girl crouches outside under parched sun,\r\nshe scrapes the skin of the oats from the\r\nbottom of the pan.\r\nshe eats from its spilling as it slides through\r\nscrawny fingers.\r\n\r\nAfrican sky is boiling, hot dry heat, but still\r\nshe works, cooking, cleaning, removing dirt\r\nfrom blistered feet.\r\nFurrowed brow is alive with worry, vacant eyes\r\nyearn for something better she wipes the sweat\r\nfrom her face with a grubby sleeve, but things are\r\nwhat they are and she knows it.\r\n\r\nIn the village, chickens squawk, wealthier women\r\ngrace by with their swirls of coloured cloth, old men\r\nshade under sap-licked trees, the few trees there are.\r\nOnwards to market, rattan baskets balance perfectly\r\non tiny heads, wild yams pulled from the earth by\r\nfarmers sell to those who can afford it.\r\n\r\nGhetto air stirs, but the young girl crouching\r\nunder parched sun doesn’t belong, so she builds a\r\nworld behind her eyes.\r\nShe clanks the side of the pan with the remains\r\nof a wooden spoon, she becomes a soloist playing\r\nto the lyrical beat of metal on wood.\r\nDreams are all she has…\r\n\r\nConverging feet kick her sometimes, but she holds\r\nno pity for herself.\r\nNo one likes to listen, ears are shallow as caves here.\r\nChildren gather round, hands cupped waiting for a stray\r\nof fallen food, their bumping and jostling doesn’t\r\ndeter her.\r\nShe continues to beat with wooden spoon and metal pan\r\neven though the wood has splintered and her hand is cut.\r\n\r\nShe will wait till precisely the right time, then\r\nat night with the lull of evening drums,\r\ndirty earth slipping from tired feet will carry\r\nher, the soloist, and her instrument, away from\r\nthis town where she doesn’t belong.','Poetry',0,'','inherit','open','open','','5-revision-4','','','2008-11-16 04:25:48','2008-11-16 04:25:48','',5,'http://yvettemerton.com/?p=10',0,'revision','',0),(11,1,'2008-11-16 04:26:29','2008-11-16 04:26:29','A selection of works:\r\n\r\nScent by Yvette Merton\r\n

\r\nSuch a strange child inward hands did face\r\nFloss entwined around a loose tooth\r\nShe dreamt of Japan once,\r\nSaid she’d been there in another life\r\nThe devils got her good\r\nStruck her down still sleeping,\r\nShe talks of the skulls sensing a danger\r\nFalling down before her eyes,\r\nShe inhales the scent of blossom\r\nCarrying them into her lungs\r\nIn the morning when she awakes\r\nShe remembers nothing of her starving times\r\nKeeping quarrels neatly filed in secrecy,\r\nNow flushed cheeks seem renewed\r\nHer eyes light with halogen lamps.\r\n\r\nAfrican Solo by Yvette Merton\r\n\r\nYoung girl crouches outside under parched sun,\r\nshe scrapes the skin of the oats from the\r\nbottom of the pan.\r\nshe eats from its spilling as it slides through\r\nscrawny fingers.\r\n\r\nAfrican sky is boiling, hot dry heat, but still\r\nshe works, cooking, cleaning, removing dirt\r\nfrom blistered feet.\r\nFurrowed brow is alive with worry, vacant eyes\r\nyearn for something better she wipes the sweat\r\nfrom her face with a grubby sleeve, but things are\r\nwhat they are and she knows it.\r\n\r\nIn the village, chickens squawk, wealthier women\r\ngrace by with their swirls of coloured cloth, old men\r\nshade under sap-licked trees, the few trees there are.\r\nOnwards to market, rattan baskets balance perfectly\r\non tiny heads, wild yams pulled from the earth by\r\nfarmers sell to those who can afford it.\r\n\r\nGhetto air stirs, but the young girl crouching\r\nunder parched sun doesn’t belong, so she builds a\r\nworld behind her eyes.\r\nShe clanks the side of the pan with the remains\r\nof a wooden spoon, she becomes a soloist playing\r\nto the lyrical beat of metal on wood.\r\nDreams are all she has…\r\n\r\nConverging feet kick her sometimes, but she holds\r\nno pity for herself.\r\nNo one likes to listen, ears are shallow as caves here.\r\nChildren gather round, hands cupped waiting for a stray\r\nof fallen food, their bumping and jostling doesn’t\r\ndeter her.\r\nShe continues to beat with wooden spoon and metal pan\r\neven though the wood has splintered and her hand is cut.\r\n\r\nShe will wait till precisely the right time, then\r\nat night with the lull of evening drums,\r\ndirty earth slipping from tired feet will carry\r\nher, the soloist, and her instrument, away from\r\nthis town where she doesn’t belong.','Poetry',0,'','inherit','open','open','','5-revision-5','','','2008-11-16 04:26:29','2008-11-16 04:26:29','',5,'http://yvettemerton.com/?p=11',0,'revision','',0),(12,1,'2008-11-16 08:45:14','2008-11-16 08:45:14','A selection of works:\r\n\r\nScent by Yvette Merton\r\n\r\nSuch a strange child inward hands did face\r\nFloss entwined around a loose tooth\r\nShe dreamt of Japan once,\r\nSaid she’d been there in another life\r\nThe devils got her good\r\nStruck her down still sleeping,\r\nShe talks of the skulls sensing a danger\r\nFalling down before her eyes,\r\nShe inhales the scent of blossom\r\nCarrying them into her lungs\r\nIn the morning when she awakes\r\nShe remembers nothing of her starving times\r\nKeeping quarrels neatly filed in secrecy,\r\nNow flushed cheeks seem renewed\r\nHer eyes light with halogen lamps.\r\n\r\nAfrican Solo by Yvette Merton\r\n\r\nYoung girl crouches outside under parched sun,\r\nshe scrapes the skin of the oats from the\r\nbottom of the pan.\r\nshe eats from its spilling as it slides through\r\nscrawny fingers.\r\n\r\nAfrican sky is boiling, hot dry heat, but still\r\nshe works, cooking, cleaning, removing dirt\r\nfrom blistered feet.\r\nFurrowed brow is alive with worry, vacant eyes\r\nyearn for something better she wipes the sweat\r\nfrom her face with a grubby sleeve, but things are\r\nwhat they are and she knows it.\r\n\r\nIn the village, chickens squawk, wealthier women\r\ngrace by with their swirls of coloured cloth, old men\r\nshade under sap-licked trees, the few trees there are.\r\nOnwards to market, rattan baskets balance perfectly\r\non tiny heads, wild yams pulled from the earth by\r\nfarmers sell to those who can afford it.\r\n\r\nGhetto air stirs, but the young girl crouching\r\nunder parched sun doesn’t belong, so she builds a\r\nworld behind her eyes.\r\nShe clanks the side of the pan with the remains\r\nof a wooden spoon, she becomes a soloist playing\r\nto the lyrical beat of metal on wood.\r\nDreams are all she has…\r\n\r\nConverging feet kick her sometimes, but she holds\r\nno pity for herself.\r\nNo one likes to listen, ears are shallow as caves here.\r\nChildren gather round, hands cupped waiting for a stray\r\nof fallen food, their bumping and jostling doesn’t\r\ndeter her.\r\nShe continues to beat with wooden spoon and metal pan\r\neven though the wood has splintered and her hand is cut.\r\n\r\nShe will wait till precisely the right time, then\r\nat night with the lull of evening drums,\r\ndirty earth slipping from tired feet will carry\r\nher, the soloist, and her instrument, away from\r\nthis town where she doesn’t belong.','Poetry',0,'','inherit','open','open','','5-revision-6','','','2008-11-16 08:45:14','2008-11-16 08:45:14','',5,'http://yvettemerton.com/?p=12',0,'revision','',0),(16,1,'2008-11-22 16:00:41','2008-11-22 16:00:41','A selection of works:\r\n\r\nScent\r\n\r\nAfrican Solo by Yvette Merton\r\n\r\nYoung girl crouches outside under parched sun,\r\nshe scrapes the skin of the oats from the\r\nbottom of the pan.\r\nshe eats from its spilling as it slides through\r\nscrawny fingers.\r\n\r\nAfrican sky is boiling, hot dry heat, but still\r\nshe works, cooking, cleaning, removing dirt\r\nfrom blistered feet.\r\nFurrowed brow is alive with worry, vacant eyes\r\nyearn for something better she wipes the sweat\r\nfrom her face with a grubby sleeve, but things are\r\nwhat they are and she knows it.\r\n\r\nIn the village, chickens squawk, wealthier women\r\ngrace by with their swirls of coloured cloth, old men\r\nshade under sap-licked trees, the few trees there are.\r\nOnwards to market, rattan baskets balance perfectly\r\non tiny heads, wild yams pulled from the earth by\r\nfarmers sell to those who can afford it.\r\n\r\nGhetto air stirs, but the young girl crouching\r\nunder parched sun doesn’t belong, so she builds a\r\nworld behind her eyes.\r\nShe clanks the side of the pan with the remains\r\nof a wooden spoon, she becomes a soloist playing\r\nto the lyrical beat of metal on wood.\r\nDreams are all she has…\r\n\r\nConverging feet kick her sometimes, but she holds\r\nno pity for herself.\r\nNo one likes to listen, ears are shallow as caves here.\r\nChildren gather round, hands cupped waiting for a stray\r\nof fallen food, their bumping and jostling doesn’t\r\ndeter her.\r\nShe continues to beat with wooden spoon and metal pan\r\neven though the wood has splintered and her hand is cut.\r\n\r\nShe will wait till precisely the right time, then\r\nat night with the lull of evening drums,\r\ndirty earth slipping from tired feet will carry\r\nher, the soloist, and her instrument, away from\r\nthis town where she doesn’t belong.','Poetry',0,'','inherit','open','open','','5-revision-7','','','2008-11-22 16:00:41','2008-11-22 16:00:41','',5,'http://yvettemerton.com/?p=16',0,'revision','',0),(24,1,'2008-11-23 14:19:49','2008-11-23 14:19:49','A selection of works:\r\n\r\nScent\r\n\r\nAfrican Solo\r\n\r\nChasing Germane\r\n\r\nThe Devil Has a Song\r\n\r\nFaces In The Storm Excerpts','Poetry',0,'','inherit','open','open','','5-revision-10','','','2008-11-23 14:19:49','2008-11-23 14:19:49','',5,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(22,1,'2008-11-23 14:24:54','2008-11-23 14:24:54','Faces In The Storm is book of poetry published through Ginninderra Press. The work is a meditation on the shapes and impressions left behind after both the subtle and ravaging storms we face as human beings.\r\n\r\nFaces In The Storm is is officially available through Ginninderra Press from the 16th of December 2008. Copies of the book can be ordered online or found at select book stores.\r\n\r\nBelow is an excerpt from the book.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nAnatomy of the Ocean\r\n\r\nIf the ocean was the water inside our body\r\nThen 90% would be salt dried and possibly cloudless\r\nSea sickness would became the joker,\r\nIn an intolerable vessel balancing a derelict plain\r\nOur throats bright pink would cry with thirst\r\nWooden skiffs our tonsils,\r\nOur skin suffocating showing no signs of desire\r\nA kiss another burning sand hill,\r\nEach bay another hand or finger a lost fugitive\r\nThis salt tongue would have to swallow its pride\r\nThe eternals of a dry land.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nAll Summer Long\r\n\r\nFeeling the constraints of light\r\nSunning warm by the window sill\r\nAging in a silent vigil,\r\nThirst for water holding the tongue\r\nIn a ritual of begging and worship\r\nEuphoric heat, stimulus for another\r\nStrange dream where the matador\r\nBecomes the bull cloaked red and\r\nDry mouthed, this yearning till\r\nThe afternoon lets go to night.\r\nAnd the sweat lightly dries seeping\r\nInto cracks and sculptured shadows\r\nWrestle deep into the after hours.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nOld Graves\r\n\r\nThink about the mine shafts\r\nEast wind, blazing heat,\r\nDistance of the colony, dug out bunkers,\r\nDehydrate, Hydrate\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about cogs spinning, west wind,\r\nSharp contrast, gold rush declines, hunger\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about the drunken brawlers, northern sky,\r\nAbandoned railways, quest for local residents\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nLittle eating,\r\nPoor crops,\r\nDwindling gold yields,\r\nLoss of land,\r\nDeserted plains,\r\nWatering holes, visitors rest and the dead.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nDead Weight\r\n\r\nThe marks on his flesh zigzagged train tracks\r\nRolled over under his veins,\r\nNodding feverishly I saw his glimmer of hope\r\nTransfer to my smile,\r\nHis life had been one long dream sleeping\r\nQuietly in the back of his mind\r\nSurfacing only in time to fall asleep again,\r\nSipping on coffee I could taste the materials\r\nOf shopping centres between my teeth,\r\nLooking at him I questioned our addictions.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nScent\r\n\r\nSuch a strange child inward hands did face\r\nFloss entwined around a loose tooth\r\nShe dreamt of Japan once,\r\nSaid she’d been there in another life\r\nThe devils got her good\r\nStruck her down still sleeping,\r\nShe talks of the skulls sensing a danger\r\nFalling down before her eyes,\r\nShe inhales the scent of blossom\r\nCarrying them into her lungs\r\nIn the morning when she awakes\r\nShe remembers nothing of her starving times\r\nKeeping quarrels neatly filed in secrecy,\r\nNow flushed cheeks seem renewed\r\nHer eyes light with halogen lamps.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nEvery Morning on the Train\r\n\r\nMaking the shadows long\r\nThis train led you away\r\nIn a place you no longer call your home\r\nSmoked in silence windows blurred\r\nBy the transience of the outside,\r\n\r\nOn the opposite seat her skin milky white\r\nDraws your eyes lower to her leg\r\nShe prostitutes a little flesh\r\nMapping out veins on her arm,\r\n\r\nThe eye’s of others pretend not to see\r\nTracing fingers on the ‘x’ marked graffiti\r\nWhile in your dreams you place\r\nA helmet on her head and\r\nSave her from this waste.','Faces In The Storm Excerpt',0,'','publish','open','open','','faces-in-the-storm-excerpt','','','2008-11-28 15:42:21','2008-11-28 15:42:21','',0,'http://yvettemerton.com/?page_id=22',0,'page','',0),(23,1,'2008-11-23 14:24:38','2008-11-23 14:24:38','Anatomy of the Ocean\n\nIf the ocean was the water inside our body\nThen 90% would be salt dried and possibly cloudless\nSea sickness would became the joker,\nIn an intolerable vessel balancing a derelict plain\nOur throats bright pink would cry with thirst\nWooden skiffs our tonsils,\nOur skin suffocating showing no signs of desire\nA kiss another burning sand hill,\nEach bay another hand or finger a lost fugitive\nThis salt tongue would have to swallow its pride\nThe eternals of a dry land.\n\nAll Summer Long\n\nFeeling the constraints of light\nSunning warm by the window sill\nAging in a silent vigil,\nThirst for water holding the tongue\nIn a ritual of begging and worship\nEuphoric heat, stimulus for another\nStrange dream where the matador\nBecomes the bull cloaked red and\nDry mouthed, this yearning till\nThe afternoon lets go to night.\nAnd the sweat lightly dries seeping\nInto cracks and sculptured shadows\nWrestle deep into the after hours.\n\nOld Graves\n\nThink about the mine shafts\nEast wind, blazing heat,\nDistance of the colony, dug out bunkers,\nDehydrate, Hydrate\n\nKeep walking…\n\nThink about cogs spinning, west wind,\nSharp contrast, gold rush declines, hunger\n\nKeep walking…\n\nThink about the drunken brawlers, northern sky,\nAbandoned railways, quest for local residents\n\nKeep walking…\n\nLittle eating,\nPoor crops,\nDwindling gold yields,\nLoss of land,\nDeserted plains,\nWatering holes, visitors rest and the dead.\n\nDead Weight\n\nThe marks on his flesh zigzagged train tracks\nRolled over under his veins,\nNodding feverishly I saw his glimmer of hope\nTransfer to my smile,\nHis life had been one long dream sleeping\nQuietly in the back of his mind\nSurfacing only in time to fall asleep again,\nSipping on coffee I could taste the materials\nOf shopping centres between my teeth,\nLooking at him I questioned our addictions.\n\nScent\n\nSuch a strange child inward hands did face\nFloss entwined around a loose tooth\nShe dreamt of Japan once,\nSaid she’d been there in another life\nThe devils got her good\nStruck her down still sleeping,\nShe talks of the skulls sensing a danger\nFalling down before her eyes,\nShe inhales the scent of blossom\nCarrying them into her lungs\nIn the morning when she awakes\nShe remembers nothing of her starving times\nKeeping quarrels neatly filed in secrecy,\nNow flushed cheeks seem renewed\nHer eyes light with halogen lamps.\n\nEvery Morning on the Train\n\nMaking the shadows long\nThis train led you away\nIn a place you no longer call your home\nSmoked in silence windows blurred\nBy the transience of the outside,\n\nOn the opposite seat her skin milky white\nDraws your eyes lower to her leg\nShe prostitutes a little flesh\nMapping out veins on her arm,\n\nThe eye’s of others pretend not to see\nTracing fingers on the ‘x’ marked graffiti\nWhile in your dreams you place\nA helmet on her head and\nSave her from this waste.','Faces In The Storm Excerpt',0,'','inherit','open','open','','22-revision','','','2008-11-23 14:24:38','2008-11-23 14:24:38','',22,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(25,1,'2008-11-28 15:43:28','2008-11-28 15:43:28','Faces In The Storm is book of poetry published through Ginninderra Press. The work is a meditation on the shapes and impressions left behind after both the subtle and ravaging storms we face as human beings.\n\nFaces In The Storm is is officially available through Ginninderra Press from the 16th of December 2008. Copies of the book can be ordered online or found at select book stores.\n\nBelow is an excerpt from the book.\n\n\n\n\n\nAnatomy of the Ocean\n\nIf the ocean was the water inside our body\nThen 90% would be salt dried and possibly cloudless\nSea sickness would became the joker,\nIn an intolerable vessel balancing a derelict plain\nOur throats bright pink would cry with thirst\nWooden skiffs our tonsils,\nOur skin suffocating showing no signs of desire\nA kiss another burning sand hill,\nEach bay another hand or finger a lost fugitive\nThis salt tongue would have to swallow its pride\nThe eternals of a dry land.\n\n\n\nAll Summer Long\n\nFeeling the constraints of light\nSunning warm by the window sill\nAging in a silent vigil,\nThirst for water holding the tongue\nIn a ritual of begging and worship\nEuphoric heat, stimulus for another\nStrange dream where the matador\nBecomes the bull cloaked red and\nDry mouthed, this yearning till\nThe afternoon lets go to night.\nAnd the sweat lightly dries seeping\nInto cracks and sculptured shadows\nWrestle deep into the after hours.\n\n\n\nOld Graves\n\nThink about the mine shafts\nEast wind, blazing heat,\nDistance of the colony, dug out bunkers,\nDehydrate, Hydrate\n\nKeep walking…\n\nThink about cogs spinning, west wind,\nSharp contrast, gold rush declines, hunger\n\nKeep walking…\n\nThink about the drunken brawlers, northern sky,\nAbandoned railways, quest for local residents\n\nKeep walking…\n\nLittle eating,\nPoor crops,\nDwindling gold yields,\nLoss of land,\nDeserted plains,\nWatering holes, visitors rest and the dead.\n\n\n\nDead Weight\n\nThe marks on his flesh zigzagged train tracks\nRolled over under his veins,\nNodding feverishly I saw his glimmer of hope\nTransfer to my smile,\nHis life had been one long dream sleeping\nQuietly in the back of his mind\nSurfacing only in time to fall asleep again,\nSipping on coffee I could taste the materials\nOf shopping centres between my teeth,\nLooking at him I questioned our addictions.\n\n\n\nScent\n\nSuch a strange child inward hands did face\nFloss entwined around a loose tooth\nShe dreamt of Japan once,\nSaid she’d been there in another life\nThe devils got her good\nStruck her down still sleeping,\nShe talks of the skulls sensing a danger\nFalling down before her eyes,\nShe inhales the scent of blossom\nCarrying them into her lungs\nIn the morning when she awakes\nShe remembers nothing of her starving times\nKeeping quarrels neatly filed in secrecy,\nNow flushed cheeks seem renewed\nHer eyes light with halogen lamps.\n\n\n\nEvery Morning on the Train\n\nMaking the shadows long\nThis train led you away\nIn a place you no longer call your home\nSmoked in silence windows blurred\nBy the transience of the outside,\n\nOn the opposite seat her skin milky white\nDraws your eyes lower to her leg\nShe prostitutes a little flesh\nMapping out veins on her arm,\n\nThe eye’s of others pretend not to see\nTracing fingers on the ‘x’ marked graffiti\nWhile in your dreams you place\nA helmet on her head and\nSave her from this waste.','Faces In The Storm Excerpt',0,'','inherit','open','open','','22-autosave','','','2008-11-28 15:43:28','2008-11-28 15:43:28','',22,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(26,1,'2008-11-23 14:33:33','2008-11-23 14:33:33','','yvettes_cover_hi-res2',0,'','inherit','open','open','','yvettes_cover_hi-res2','','','2008-11-23 14:33:33','2008-11-23 14:33:33','',22,'http://yvettemerton.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/11/yvettes_cover_hi-res2.jpg',0,'attachment','image/jpeg',0),(27,1,'2008-11-23 14:24:54','2008-11-23 14:24:54','Anatomy of the Ocean\r\n\r\nIf the ocean was the water inside our body\r\nThen 90% would be salt dried and possibly cloudless\r\nSea sickness would became the joker,\r\nIn an intolerable vessel balancing a derelict plain\r\nOur throats bright pink would cry with thirst\r\nWooden skiffs our tonsils,\r\nOur skin suffocating showing no signs of desire\r\nA kiss another burning sand hill,\r\nEach bay another hand or finger a lost fugitive\r\nThis salt tongue would have to swallow its pride\r\nThe eternals of a dry land.\r\n\r\nAll Summer Long\r\n\r\nFeeling the constraints of light\r\nSunning warm by the window sill\r\nAging in a silent vigil,\r\nThirst for water holding the tongue\r\nIn a ritual of begging and worship\r\nEuphoric heat, stimulus for another\r\nStrange dream where the matador\r\nBecomes the bull cloaked red and\r\nDry mouthed, this yearning till\r\nThe afternoon lets go to night.\r\nAnd the sweat lightly dries seeping\r\nInto cracks and sculptured shadows\r\nWrestle deep into the after hours.\r\n\r\nOld Graves\r\n\r\nThink about the mine shafts\r\nEast wind, blazing heat,\r\nDistance of the colony, dug out bunkers,\r\nDehydrate, Hydrate\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about cogs spinning, west wind,\r\nSharp contrast, gold rush declines, hunger\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about the drunken brawlers, northern sky,\r\nAbandoned railways, quest for local residents\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nLittle eating,\r\nPoor crops,\r\nDwindling gold yields,\r\nLoss of land,\r\nDeserted plains,\r\nWatering holes, visitors rest and the dead.\r\n\r\nDead Weight\r\n\r\nThe marks on his flesh zigzagged train tracks\r\nRolled over under his veins,\r\nNodding feverishly I saw his glimmer of hope\r\nTransfer to my smile,\r\nHis life had been one long dream sleeping\r\nQuietly in the back of his mind\r\nSurfacing only in time to fall asleep again,\r\nSipping on coffee I could taste the materials\r\nOf shopping centres between my teeth,\r\nLooking at him I questioned our addictions.\r\n\r\nScent\r\n\r\nSuch a strange child inward hands did face\r\nFloss entwined around a loose tooth\r\nShe dreamt of Japan once,\r\nSaid she’d been there in another life\r\nThe devils got her good\r\nStruck her down still sleeping,\r\nShe talks of the skulls sensing a danger\r\nFalling down before her eyes,\r\nShe inhales the scent of blossom\r\nCarrying them into her lungs\r\nIn the morning when she awakes\r\nShe remembers nothing of her starving times\r\nKeeping quarrels neatly filed in secrecy,\r\nNow flushed cheeks seem renewed\r\nHer eyes light with halogen lamps.\r\n\r\nEvery Morning on the Train\r\n\r\nMaking the shadows long\r\nThis train led you away\r\nIn a place you no longer call your home\r\nSmoked in silence windows blurred\r\nBy the transience of the outside,\r\n\r\nOn the opposite seat her skin milky white\r\nDraws your eyes lower to her leg\r\nShe prostitutes a little flesh\r\nMapping out veins on her arm,\r\n\r\nThe eye’s of others pretend not to see\r\nTracing fingers on the ‘x’ marked graffiti\r\nWhile in your dreams you place\r\nA helmet on her head and\r\nSave her from this waste.','Faces In The Storm Excerpt',0,'','inherit','open','open','','22-revision-2','','','2008-11-23 14:24:54','2008-11-23 14:24:54','',22,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(28,1,'2008-11-23 14:34:50','2008-11-23 14:34:50','\r\n\r\nFaces In The Storm is ........\r\n\r\nAnatomy of the Ocean\r\n\r\nIf the ocean was the water inside our body\r\nThen 90% would be salt dried and possibly cloudless\r\nSea sickness would became the joker,\r\nIn an intolerable vessel balancing a derelict plain\r\nOur throats bright pink would cry with thirst\r\nWooden skiffs our tonsils,\r\nOur skin suffocating showing no signs of desire\r\nA kiss another burning sand hill,\r\nEach bay another hand or finger a lost fugitive\r\nThis salt tongue would have to swallow its pride\r\nThe eternals of a dry land.\r\n\r\nAll Summer Long\r\n\r\nFeeling the constraints of light\r\nSunning warm by the window sill\r\nAging in a silent vigil,\r\nThirst for water holding the tongue\r\nIn a ritual of begging and worship\r\nEuphoric heat, stimulus for another\r\nStrange dream where the matador\r\nBecomes the bull cloaked red and\r\nDry mouthed, this yearning till\r\nThe afternoon lets go to night.\r\nAnd the sweat lightly dries seeping\r\nInto cracks and sculptured shadows\r\nWrestle deep into the after hours.\r\n\r\nOld Graves\r\n\r\nThink about the mine shafts\r\nEast wind, blazing heat,\r\nDistance of the colony, dug out bunkers,\r\nDehydrate, Hydrate\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about cogs spinning, west wind,\r\nSharp contrast, gold rush declines, hunger\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about the drunken brawlers, northern sky,\r\nAbandoned railways, quest for local residents\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nLittle eating,\r\nPoor crops,\r\nDwindling gold yields,\r\nLoss of land,\r\nDeserted plains,\r\nWatering holes, visitors rest and the dead.\r\n\r\nDead Weight\r\n\r\nThe marks on his flesh zigzagged train tracks\r\nRolled over under his veins,\r\nNodding feverishly I saw his glimmer of hope\r\nTransfer to my smile,\r\nHis life had been one long dream sleeping\r\nQuietly in the back of his mind\r\nSurfacing only in time to fall asleep again,\r\nSipping on coffee I could taste the materials\r\nOf shopping centres between my teeth,\r\nLooking at him I questioned our addictions.\r\n\r\nScent\r\n\r\nSuch a strange child inward hands did face\r\nFloss entwined around a loose tooth\r\nShe dreamt of Japan once,\r\nSaid she’d been there in another life\r\nThe devils got her good\r\nStruck her down still sleeping,\r\nShe talks of the skulls sensing a danger\r\nFalling down before her eyes,\r\nShe inhales the scent of blossom\r\nCarrying them into her lungs\r\nIn the morning when she awakes\r\nShe remembers nothing of her starving times\r\nKeeping quarrels neatly filed in secrecy,\r\nNow flushed cheeks seem renewed\r\nHer eyes light with halogen lamps.\r\n\r\nEvery Morning on the Train\r\n\r\nMaking the shadows long\r\nThis train led you away\r\nIn a place you no longer call your home\r\nSmoked in silence windows blurred\r\nBy the transience of the outside,\r\n\r\nOn the opposite seat her skin milky white\r\nDraws your eyes lower to her leg\r\nShe prostitutes a little flesh\r\nMapping out veins on her arm,\r\n\r\nThe eye’s of others pretend not to see\r\nTracing fingers on the ‘x’ marked graffiti\r\nWhile in your dreams you place\r\nA helmet on her head and\r\nSave her from this waste.','Faces In The Storm Excerpt',0,'','inherit','open','open','','22-revision-3','','','2008-11-23 14:34:50','2008-11-23 14:34:50','',22,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(29,1,'2008-11-23 14:36:55','2008-11-23 14:36:55','\r\n\r\nFaces In The Storm is ........\r\n\r\nFaces In The Storm is published through Ginninderra Press and is officially available from the 16th of December 2008. Copies of the book can be ordered online or found at select book stores.\r\n\r\nAnatomy of the Ocean\r\n\r\nIf the ocean was the water inside our body\r\nThen 90% would be salt dried and possibly cloudless\r\nSea sickness would became the joker,\r\nIn an intolerable vessel balancing a derelict plain\r\nOur throats bright pink would cry with thirst\r\nWooden skiffs our tonsils,\r\nOur skin suffocating showing no signs of desire\r\nA kiss another burning sand hill,\r\nEach bay another hand or finger a lost fugitive\r\nThis salt tongue would have to swallow its pride\r\nThe eternals of a dry land.\r\n\r\nAll Summer Long\r\n\r\nFeeling the constraints of light\r\nSunning warm by the window sill\r\nAging in a silent vigil,\r\nThirst for water holding the tongue\r\nIn a ritual of begging and worship\r\nEuphoric heat, stimulus for another\r\nStrange dream where the matador\r\nBecomes the bull cloaked red and\r\nDry mouthed, this yearning till\r\nThe afternoon lets go to night.\r\nAnd the sweat lightly dries seeping\r\nInto cracks and sculptured shadows\r\nWrestle deep into the after hours.\r\n\r\nOld Graves\r\n\r\nThink about the mine shafts\r\nEast wind, blazing heat,\r\nDistance of the colony, dug out bunkers,\r\nDehydrate, Hydrate\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about cogs spinning, west wind,\r\nSharp contrast, gold rush declines, hunger\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about the drunken brawlers, northern sky,\r\nAbandoned railways, quest for local residents\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nLittle eating,\r\nPoor crops,\r\nDwindling gold yields,\r\nLoss of land,\r\nDeserted plains,\r\nWatering holes, visitors rest and the dead.\r\n\r\nDead Weight\r\n\r\nThe marks on his flesh zigzagged train tracks\r\nRolled over under his veins,\r\nNodding feverishly I saw his glimmer of hope\r\nTransfer to my smile,\r\nHis life had been one long dream sleeping\r\nQuietly in the back of his mind\r\nSurfacing only in time to fall asleep again,\r\nSipping on coffee I could taste the materials\r\nOf shopping centres between my teeth,\r\nLooking at him I questioned our addictions.\r\n\r\nScent\r\n\r\nSuch a strange child inward hands did face\r\nFloss entwined around a loose tooth\r\nShe dreamt of Japan once,\r\nSaid she’d been there in another life\r\nThe devils got her good\r\nStruck her down still sleeping,\r\nShe talks of the skulls sensing a danger\r\nFalling down before her eyes,\r\nShe inhales the scent of blossom\r\nCarrying them into her lungs\r\nIn the morning when she awakes\r\nShe remembers nothing of her starving times\r\nKeeping quarrels neatly filed in secrecy,\r\nNow flushed cheeks seem renewed\r\nHer eyes light with halogen lamps.\r\n\r\nEvery Morning on the Train\r\n\r\nMaking the shadows long\r\nThis train led you away\r\nIn a place you no longer call your home\r\nSmoked in silence windows blurred\r\nBy the transience of the outside,\r\n\r\nOn the opposite seat her skin milky white\r\nDraws your eyes lower to her leg\r\nShe prostitutes a little flesh\r\nMapping out veins on her arm,\r\n\r\nThe eye’s of others pretend not to see\r\nTracing fingers on the ‘x’ marked graffiti\r\nWhile in your dreams you place\r\nA helmet on her head and\r\nSave her from this waste.','Faces In The Storm Excerpt',0,'','inherit','open','open','','22-revision-4','','','2008-11-23 14:36:55','2008-11-23 14:36:55','',22,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(30,1,'2008-11-23 14:45:12','2008-11-23 14:45:12','\r\n\r\nFaces In The Storm is ........\r\n\r\nFaces In The Storm is published through Ginninderra Press and is officially available from the 16th of December 2008. Copies of the book can be ordered online or found at select book stores.\r\n\r\nAnatomy of the Ocean\r\n\r\nIf the ocean was the water inside our body\r\nThen 90% would be salt dried and possibly cloudless\r\nSea sickness would became the joker,\r\nIn an intolerable vessel balancing a derelict plain\r\nOur throats bright pink would cry with thirst\r\nWooden skiffs our tonsils,\r\nOur skin suffocating showing no signs of desire\r\nA kiss another burning sand hill,\r\nEach bay another hand or finger a lost fugitive\r\nThis salt tongue would have to swallow its pride\r\nThe eternals of a dry land.\r\n\r\nAll Summer Long\r\n\r\nFeeling the constraints of light\r\nSunning warm by the window sill\r\nAging in a silent vigil,\r\nThirst for water holding the tongue\r\nIn a ritual of begging and worship\r\nEuphoric heat, stimulus for another\r\nStrange dream where the matador\r\nBecomes the bull cloaked red and\r\nDry mouthed, this yearning till\r\nThe afternoon lets go to night.\r\nAnd the sweat lightly dries seeping\r\nInto cracks and sculptured shadows\r\nWrestle deep into the after hours.\r\n\r\nOld Graves\r\n\r\nThink about the mine shafts\r\nEast wind, blazing heat,\r\nDistance of the colony, dug out bunkers,\r\nDehydrate, Hydrate\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about cogs spinning, west wind,\r\nSharp contrast, gold rush declines, hunger\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about the drunken brawlers, northern sky,\r\nAbandoned railways, quest for local residents\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nLittle eating,\r\nPoor crops,\r\nDwindling gold yields,\r\nLoss of land,\r\nDeserted plains,\r\nWatering holes, visitors rest and the dead.\r\n\r\nDead Weight\r\n\r\nThe marks on his flesh zigzagged train tracks\r\nRolled over under his veins,\r\nNodding feverishly I saw his glimmer of hope\r\nTransfer to my smile,\r\nHis life had been one long dream sleeping\r\nQuietly in the back of his mind\r\nSurfacing only in time to fall asleep again,\r\nSipping on coffee I could taste the materials\r\nOf shopping centres between my teeth,\r\nLooking at him I questioned our addictions.\r\n\r\nScent\r\n\r\nSuch a strange child inward hands did face\r\nFloss entwined around a loose tooth\r\nShe dreamt of Japan once,\r\nSaid she’d been there in another life\r\nThe devils got her good\r\nStruck her down still sleeping,\r\nShe talks of the skulls sensing a danger\r\nFalling down before her eyes,\r\nShe inhales the scent of blossom\r\nCarrying them into her lungs\r\nIn the morning when she awakes\r\nShe remembers nothing of her starving times\r\nKeeping quarrels neatly filed in secrecy,\r\nNow flushed cheeks seem renewed\r\nHer eyes light with halogen lamps.\r\n\r\nEvery Morning on the Train\r\n\r\nMaking the shadows long\r\nThis train led you away\r\nIn a place you no longer call your home\r\nSmoked in silence windows blurred\r\nBy the transience of the outside,\r\n\r\nOn the opposite seat her skin milky white\r\nDraws your eyes lower to her leg\r\nShe prostitutes a little flesh\r\nMapping out veins on her arm,\r\n\r\nThe eye’s of others pretend not to see\r\nTracing fingers on the ‘x’ marked graffiti\r\nWhile in your dreams you place\r\nA helmet on her head and\r\nSave her from this waste.','Faces In The Storm Excerpt',0,'','inherit','open','open','','22-revision-5','','','2008-11-23 14:45:12','2008-11-23 14:45:12','',22,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(31,1,'2008-11-23 15:04:58','2008-11-23 15:04:58','

Published Poetry

\r\nLilac Tree\r\nPixel papers (issue 25) Jan 2004\r\n\r\nA Grain of Sand\r\nMarginata March 2004\r\n\r\nOn a hill is a Temple\r\nBlack Bird Ballad\r\nPixel papers (issue 27) April 2004\r\n\r\nScintilla Flames\r\nWild Fire Magazine (winter edition) 2004\r\n\r\nCircle and Fold\r\nWild Fire Online 2004\r\n\r\nSeven Whistlers\r\nPixel Papers (issue 29) 2004\r\n\r\nThe Only Guitar\r\nFalling star Magazine (American Winter Issue) 2004\r\n\r\nChasing Germaine\r\nGathering stones\r\nRed Centre\r\nAustralian Reader Review (Dec) 2004\r\n\r\nSolar System\r\nRed Booth review Online (Issue 15) 2004\r\nRed Booth Review Annual Literary Magazine \"Wrong Again\" Dec 2004\r\n\r\nAgent Orange\r\nPulsar Poetry Magazine (10th edition) Ligden Poetry Society UK Dec 2004\r\n\r\nHearts and Diamonds\r\nJail Baby\r\nIris\r\nKen*again Literary ezine (American winter edition) 2004/2005\r\n\r\nCrossing Paths\r\nAnother Sleepless night\r\nPixel Papers (Issue 30) Jan 2005\r\n\r\nLake and Pool\r\nDragon Fly\r\nPersistent mirage (Issue One) Feb 2005\r\n\r\nTurning to Alchemy\r\nThe Devil has a Song\r\nKen*again (American Fall edition) 2005\r\n\r\nSouth of the Nile\r\nMoon Wort Review 2005\r\n\r\nGrowing Pains\r\nAll Things Die\r\nAustralian Reader Review 2005\r\n\r\nWhen she calls our name\r\nAncient Heart UK (may Issue) 2005\r\n\r\nHillside in Delhi\r\nLast Supper\r\nPixel Papers (issue 33) Oct 2005 \r\n\r\nTurning In\r\nDiary of a Claustrophobic\r\nWhen Bella Came Last\r\nThick with Conviction (Issue two) Jan 2006\r\n\r\nTalking to Laura\r\nBaby Clam Press (Issue Two) 2006\r\n\r\nThe Last Good Fisherman\r\nTryst Literary Magazine 2006\r\n\r\nAfrican Soloist\r\nTravels through Serbia\r\nHome of Blues\r\nTake a stand\r\nSun Rising Press (Katrina Anthology) hard cover book\r\n\"Washing the Color of Water Golden\" 2006\r\n\r\nSolar System\r\n\r\nRed Booth Review 2004\r\n\r\nSouth of the Nile\r\nMoon Wort Review 2005\r\n\r\nThe Last Nomad\r\nThe Word is Out (issue Two) September 2006\r\n\r\nFaces in the Storm\r\nPoetry book published by Ginninderra press ( December 2008)','Published Works',0,'','publish','open','open','','published-works','','','2008-11-26 21:22:32','2008-11-26 21:22:32','',0,'http://yvettemerton.com/?page_id=31',0,'page','',0),(32,1,'2008-11-23 14:53:05','2008-11-23 14:53:05','Published Poetry\n\nLilac Tree\nPixel papers (issue 25) Jan 2004\n\nA Grain of Sand\nMarginata March 2004\n\nOn a hill is a Temple\nBlack Bird Ballad\nPixel papers (issue 27) April 2004\n\nScintilla Flames\nWild Fire Magazine (winter edition) 2004\n\nCircle and Fold\nWild Fire Online 2004\n\nSeven Whistlers\nPixel Papers (issue 29) 2004\n\nThe Only Guitar\nFalling star Magazine (American Winter Issue) 2004\n\nChasing Germaine\nGathering stones\nRed Centre\nAustralian Reader Review (Dec) 2004\n\nSolar System\nRed Booth review Online (Issue 15) 2004\nRed Booth Review Annual Literary Magazine \"Wrong Again\" Dec 2004\n\nAgent Orange\nPulsar Poetry Magazine (10th edition) Ligden Poetry Society UK Dec 2004\n\nHearts and Diamonds\nJail Baby\nIris\nKen*again Literary ezine (American winter edition) 2004/2005\n\nCrossing Paths\nAnother sleepless night\nPixel Papers (Issue 30) Jan 2005\n\nLake and Pool\nDragon Fly\nPersistent mirage (Issue One) Feb 2005\n\nTurning to Alchemy\nThe devil has a song\nKen*again (American Fall edition) 2005:\n\nMoon wort review 2005:\nSouth of the Nile\n\nAustralian reader Review 2005:\nGrowing Pains\nAll things die\n\nAncient heart UK (may Issue) 2005:\nWhen she calls our name\n\nPixel Papers (issue 33) Oct 2005:\nHillside in Delhi\nLast Supper\n\nThick with Conviction (Issue two) Jan 2006:\nTurning In\nDiary of a Claustrophobic\nWhen Bella came last\n\nBaby Clam Press (Issue Two) 2006:\nTalking to Laura\n\nTryst Literary Magazine 2006:\nThe Last Good Fisherman\n\nSun Rising Press (Katrina Anthology) Hard cover Book\nWashing the Color of Water Golden 2006:\nAfrican Soloist\nTravels through Serbia\nHome of Blues and also the poem take a stand\nPixel Papers (issue 35) July 2006:\n\nSolar System (first published with Red Booth Review 2004)\nSouth of the Nile (First published with Moon Wort Review 2005)\n\nThe Word is Out (issue Two) September 2006:\n\nThe last Nomad\n\nFaces in the Storm –poetry book published by Ginninderra press ( December 2008)','Published Works',0,'','inherit','open','open','','31-revision','','','2008-11-23 14:53:05','2008-11-23 14:53:05','',31,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(33,1,'2008-11-23 15:02:35','2008-11-23 15:02:35','Published Poetry\n\nLilac Tree\nPixel papers (issue 25) Jan 2004\n\nA Grain of Sand\nMarginata March 2004\n\nOn a hill is a Temple\nBlack Bird Ballad\nPixel papers (issue 27) April 2004\n\nScintilla Flames\nWild Fire Magazine (winter edition) 2004\n\nCircle and Fold\nWild Fire Online 2004\n\nSeven Whistlers\nPixel Papers (issue 29) 2004\n\nThe Only Guitar\nFalling star Magazine (American Winter Issue) 2004\n\nChasing Germaine\nGathering stones\nRed Centre\nAustralian Reader Review (Dec) 2004\n\nSolar System\nRed Booth review Online (Issue 15) 2004\nRed Booth Review Annual Literary Magazine \"Wrong Again\" Dec 2004\n\nAgent Orange\nPulsar Poetry Magazine (10th edition) Ligden Poetry Society UK Dec 2004\n\nHearts and Diamonds\nJail Baby\nIris\nKen*again Literary ezine (American winter edition) 2004/2005\n\nCrossing Paths\nAnother Sleepless night\nPixel Papers (Issue 30) Jan 2005\n\nLake and Pool\nDragon Fly\nPersistent mirage (Issue One) Feb 2005\n\nTurning to Alchemy\nThe Devil has a Song\nKen*again (American Fall edition) 2005\n\nSouth of the Nile\nMoon Wort Review 2005\n\nGrowing Pains\nAll Things Die\nAustralian Reader Review 2005\n\nWhen she calls our name\nAncient Heart UK (may Issue) 2005\n\nHillside in Delhi\nLast Supper\nPixel Papers (issue 33) Oct 2005 \n\nTurning In\nDiary of a Claustrophobic\nWhen Bella Came Last\nThick with Conviction (Issue two) Jan 2006\n\nTalking to Laura\nBaby Clam Press (Issue Two) 2006\n\nThe Last Good Fisherman\nTryst Literary Magazine 2006\n\nSun Rising Press (Katrina Anthology) Hard cover Book\n\"Washing the Color of Water Golden\" 2006:\n\nAfrican Soloist\nTravels through Serbia\nHome of Blues\nTake a stand\n\nSolar System\n\nRed Booth Review 2004\n\nSouth of the Nile\nMoon Wort Review 2005\n\nThe Last Nomad\nThe Word is Out (issue Two) September 2006\n\nFaces in the Storm –poetry book published by Ginninderra press ( December 2008)','Published Works',0,'','inherit','open','open','','31-revision-2','','','2008-11-23 15:02:35','2008-11-23 15:02:35','',31,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(34,1,'2008-11-23 15:04:34','2008-11-23 15:04:34','Published Poetry\n\nLilac Tree\nPixel papers (issue 25) Jan 2004\n\nA Grain of Sand\nMarginata March 2004\n\nOn a hill is a Temple\nBlack Bird Ballad\nPixel papers (issue 27) April 2004\n\nScintilla Flames\nWild Fire Magazine (winter edition) 2004\n\nCircle and Fold\nWild Fire Online 2004\n\nSeven Whistlers\nPixel Papers (issue 29) 2004\n\nThe Only Guitar\nFalling star Magazine (American Winter Issue) 2004\n\nChasing Germaine\nGathering stones\nRed Centre\nAustralian Reader Review (Dec) 2004\n\nSolar System\nRed Booth review Online (Issue 15) 2004\nRed Booth Review Annual Literary Magazine \"Wrong Again\" Dec 2004\n\nAgent Orange\nPulsar Poetry Magazine (10th edition) Ligden Poetry Society UK Dec 2004\n\nHearts and Diamonds\nJail Baby\nIris\nKen*again Literary ezine (American winter edition) 2004/2005\n\nCrossing Paths\nAnother Sleepless night\nPixel Papers (Issue 30) Jan 2005\n\nLake and Pool\nDragon Fly\nPersistent mirage (Issue One) Feb 2005\n\nTurning to Alchemy\nThe Devil has a Song\nKen*again (American Fall edition) 2005\n\nSouth of the Nile\nMoon Wort Review 2005\n\nGrowing Pains\nAll Things Die\nAustralian Reader Review 2005\n\nWhen she calls our name\nAncient Heart UK (may Issue) 2005\n\nHillside in Delhi\nLast Supper\nPixel Papers (issue 33) Oct 2005 \n\nTurning In\nDiary of a Claustrophobic\nWhen Bella Came Last\nThick with Conviction (Issue two) Jan 2006\n\nTalking to Laura\nBaby Clam Press (Issue Two) 2006\n\nThe Last Good Fisherman\nTryst Literary Magazine 2006\n\nAfrican Soloist\nTravels through Serbia\nHome of Blues\nTake a stand\nSun Rising Press (Katrina Anthology) hard cover book\n\"Washing the Color of Water Golden\" 2006\n\nSolar System\n\nRed Booth Review 2004\n\nSouth of the Nile\nMoon Wort Review 2005\n\nThe Last Nomad\nThe Word is Out (issue Two) September 2006\n\nFaces in the Storm\nPoetry book published by Ginninderra press ( December 2008)','Published Works',0,'','inherit','open','open','','31-revision-3','','','2008-11-23 15:04:34','2008-11-23 15:04:34','',31,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(35,1,'2008-11-23 14:27:42','2008-11-23 14:27:42','A selection of works:\r\n\r\nAfrican Solo\r\n\r\nChasing Germane\r\n\r\nThe Devil Has a Song\r\n\r\nFaces In The Storm Excerpt','Poetry',0,'','inherit','open','open','','5-revision-11','','','2008-11-23 14:27:42','2008-11-23 14:27:42','',5,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(36,1,'2008-11-23 14:45:58','2008-11-23 14:45:58','\r\n\r\nFaces In The Storm is ........\r\n\r\nFaces In The Storm is published through Ginninderra Press and is officially available from the 16th of December 2008. Copies of the book can be ordered online or found at select book stores.\r\n\r\nBelow is an excerpt from the book.\r\n\r\nAnatomy of the Ocean\r\n\r\nIf the ocean was the water inside our body\r\nThen 90% would be salt dried and possibly cloudless\r\nSea sickness would became the joker,\r\nIn an intolerable vessel balancing a derelict plain\r\nOur throats bright pink would cry with thirst\r\nWooden skiffs our tonsils,\r\nOur skin suffocating showing no signs of desire\r\nA kiss another burning sand hill,\r\nEach bay another hand or finger a lost fugitive\r\nThis salt tongue would have to swallow its pride\r\nThe eternals of a dry land.\r\n\r\nAll Summer Long\r\n\r\nFeeling the constraints of light\r\nSunning warm by the window sill\r\nAging in a silent vigil,\r\nThirst for water holding the tongue\r\nIn a ritual of begging and worship\r\nEuphoric heat, stimulus for another\r\nStrange dream where the matador\r\nBecomes the bull cloaked red and\r\nDry mouthed, this yearning till\r\nThe afternoon lets go to night.\r\nAnd the sweat lightly dries seeping\r\nInto cracks and sculptured shadows\r\nWrestle deep into the after hours.\r\n\r\nOld Graves\r\n\r\nThink about the mine shafts\r\nEast wind, blazing heat,\r\nDistance of the colony, dug out bunkers,\r\nDehydrate, Hydrate\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about cogs spinning, west wind,\r\nSharp contrast, gold rush declines, hunger\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about the drunken brawlers, northern sky,\r\nAbandoned railways, quest for local residents\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nLittle eating,\r\nPoor crops,\r\nDwindling gold yields,\r\nLoss of land,\r\nDeserted plains,\r\nWatering holes, visitors rest and the dead.\r\n\r\nDead Weight\r\n\r\nThe marks on his flesh zigzagged train tracks\r\nRolled over under his veins,\r\nNodding feverishly I saw his glimmer of hope\r\nTransfer to my smile,\r\nHis life had been one long dream sleeping\r\nQuietly in the back of his mind\r\nSurfacing only in time to fall asleep again,\r\nSipping on coffee I could taste the materials\r\nOf shopping centres between my teeth,\r\nLooking at him I questioned our addictions.\r\n\r\nScent\r\n\r\nSuch a strange child inward hands did face\r\nFloss entwined around a loose tooth\r\nShe dreamt of Japan once,\r\nSaid she’d been there in another life\r\nThe devils got her good\r\nStruck her down still sleeping,\r\nShe talks of the skulls sensing a danger\r\nFalling down before her eyes,\r\nShe inhales the scent of blossom\r\nCarrying them into her lungs\r\nIn the morning when she awakes\r\nShe remembers nothing of her starving times\r\nKeeping quarrels neatly filed in secrecy,\r\nNow flushed cheeks seem renewed\r\nHer eyes light with halogen lamps.\r\n\r\nEvery Morning on the Train\r\n\r\nMaking the shadows long\r\nThis train led you away\r\nIn a place you no longer call your home\r\nSmoked in silence windows blurred\r\nBy the transience of the outside,\r\n\r\nOn the opposite seat her skin milky white\r\nDraws your eyes lower to her leg\r\nShe prostitutes a little flesh\r\nMapping out veins on her arm,\r\n\r\nThe eye’s of others pretend not to see\r\nTracing fingers on the ‘x’ marked graffiti\r\nWhile in your dreams you place\r\nA helmet on her head and\r\nSave her from this waste.','Faces In The Storm Excerpt',0,'','inherit','open','open','','22-revision-6','','','2008-11-23 14:45:58','2008-11-23 14:45:58','',22,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(37,1,'2008-11-26 14:35:10','2008-11-26 14:35:10','African Solo by Yvette Merton\n\nYoung girl crouches outside under parched sun,\nshe scrapes the skin of the oats from the\nbottom of the pan.\nshe eats from its spilling as it slides through\nscrawny fingers.\n\nAfrican sky is boiling, hot dry heat, but still\nshe works, cooking, cleaning, removing dirt\nfrom blistered feet.\nFurrowed brow is alive with worry, vacant eyes\nyearn for something better she wipes the sweat\nfrom her face with a grubby sleeve, but things are\nwhat they are and she knows it.\n\nIn the village, chickens squawk, wealthier women\ngrace by with their swirls of coloured cloth, old men\nshade under sap-licked trees, the few trees there are.\nOnwards to market, rattan baskets balance perfectly\non tiny heads, wild yams pulled from the earth by\nfarmers sell to those who can afford it.\n\nGhetto air stirs, but the young girl crouching\nunder parched sun doesn’t belong, so she builds a\nworld behind her eyes.\nShe clanks the side of the pan with the remains\nof a wooden spoon, she becomes a soloist playing\nto the lyrical beat of metal on wood.\nDreams are all she has…\n\nConverging feet kick her sometimes, but she holds\nno pity for herself.\nNo one likes to listen, ears are shallow as caves here.\nChildren gather round, hands cupped waiting for a stray\nof fallen food, their bumping and jostling doesn’t\ndeter her.\nShe continues to beat with wooden spoon and metal pan\neven though the wood has splintered and her hand is cut.\n\nShe will wait till precisely the right time, then\nat night with the lull of evening drums,\ndirty earth slipping from tired feet will carry\nher, the soloist, and her instrument, away from\nthis town where she doesn’t belong.','African Solo',0,'','inherit','open','open','','17-autosave-v1','','','2008-11-26 14:35:10','2008-11-26 14:35:10','',17,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(38,1,'2008-11-22 16:28:14','2008-11-22 16:28:14','African Solo by Yvette Merton\r\n\r\nYoung girl crouches outside under parched sun,\r\nshe scrapes the skin of the oats from the\r\nbottom of the pan.\r\nshe eats from its spilling as it slides through\r\nscrawny fingers.\r\n\r\nAfrican sky is boiling, hot dry heat, but still\r\nshe works, cooking, cleaning, removing dirt\r\nfrom blistered feet.\r\nFurrowed brow is alive with worry, vacant eyes\r\nyearn for something better she wipes the sweat\r\nfrom her face with a grubby sleeve, but things are\r\nwhat they are and she knows it.\r\n\r\nIn the village, chickens squawk, wealthier women\r\ngrace by with their swirls of coloured cloth, old men\r\nshade under sap-licked trees, the few trees there are.\r\nOnwards to market, rattan baskets balance perfectly\r\non tiny heads, wild yams pulled from the earth by\r\nfarmers sell to those who can afford it.\r\n\r\nGhetto air stirs, but the young girl crouching\r\nunder parched sun doesn’t belong, so she builds a\r\nworld behind her eyes.\r\nShe clanks the side of the pan with the remains\r\nof a wooden spoon, she becomes a soloist playing\r\nto the lyrical beat of metal on wood.\r\nDreams are all she has…\r\n\r\nConverging feet kick her sometimes, but she holds\r\nno pity for herself.\r\nNo one likes to listen, ears are shallow as caves here.\r\nChildren gather round, hands cupped waiting for a stray\r\nof fallen food, their bumping and jostling doesn’t\r\ndeter her.\r\nShe continues to beat with wooden spoon and metal pan\r\neven though the wood has splintered and her hand is cut.\r\n\r\nShe will wait till precisely the right time, then\r\nat night with the lull of evening drums,\r\ndirty earth slipping from tired feet will carry\r\nher, the soloist, and her instrument, away from\r\nthis town where she doesn’t belong.','African Solo',0,'','inherit','open','open','','17-revision-v1','','','2008-11-22 16:28:14','2008-11-22 16:28:14','',17,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(39,1,'2008-11-23 14:20:49','2008-11-23 14:20:49','Chasing Germane by Yvette Merton\r\n\r\nChasing Germane was never easy\r\nsubliminal boy, holding fingers\r\nletting go, tiny and disproportionate,\r\nquick-wit tackling wild hearts\r\nkeeping them gathered, only for him,\r\npulling petals from daisies\r\npulling fruit from its skin\r\nface plaster smile\r\nsitting stiff limbed like a sultana\r\non a lounge, pretending to listen.\r\nHe’d sigh at the right time\r\nhe’d ahh at the right time\r\nbut his mind…chasing the planes,\r\nhead nodding feverishly\r\ncounting the minutes, ten at best\r\nthen he’d flinch\r\nchasing his shadow,\r\nwarm on the concrete\r\nleaf in the breeze\r\nsucked by the wind\r\ndreadlocks matted\r\nhome for the insects\r\nchasing the clocks\r\nme, chasing him\r\n-steam locomotive-\r\nracing through tunnels\r\nnever giving up chasing Germane.','Chasing Germane',0,'','inherit','open','open','','20-revision','','','2008-11-23 14:20:49','2008-11-23 14:20:49','',20,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(40,1,'2008-11-23 15:27:52','2008-11-23 15:27:52','\r\n\r\nFaces In The Storm is ........\r\n\r\nFaces In The Storm is published through Ginninderra Press and is officially available from the 16th of December 2008. Copies of the book can be ordered online or found at select book stores.\r\n\r\nBelow is an excerpt from the book.\r\n\r\nAnatomy of the Ocean\r\n\r\nIf the ocean was the water inside our body\r\nThen 90% would be salt dried and possibly cloudless\r\nSea sickness would became the joker,\r\nIn an intolerable vessel balancing a derelict plain\r\nOur throats bright pink would cry with thirst\r\nWooden skiffs our tonsils,\r\nOur skin suffocating showing no signs of desire\r\nA kiss another burning sand hill,\r\nEach bay another hand or finger a lost fugitive\r\nThis salt tongue would have to swallow its pride\r\nThe eternals of a dry land.\r\n\r\nAll Summer Long\r\n\r\nFeeling the constraints of light\r\nSunning warm by the window sill\r\nAging in a silent vigil,\r\nThirst for water holding the tongue\r\nIn a ritual of begging and worship\r\nEuphoric heat, stimulus for another\r\nStrange dream where the matador\r\nBecomes the bull cloaked red and\r\nDry mouthed, this yearning till\r\nThe afternoon lets go to night.\r\nAnd the sweat lightly dries seeping\r\nInto cracks and sculptured shadows\r\nWrestle deep into the after hours.\r\n\r\nOld Graves\r\n\r\nThink about the mine shafts\r\nEast wind, blazing heat,\r\nDistance of the colony, dug out bunkers,\r\nDehydrate, Hydrate\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about cogs spinning, west wind,\r\nSharp contrast, gold rush declines, hunger\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about the drunken brawlers, northern sky,\r\nAbandoned railways, quest for local residents\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nLittle eating,\r\nPoor crops,\r\nDwindling gold yields,\r\nLoss of land,\r\nDeserted plains,\r\nWatering holes, visitors rest and the dead.\r\n\r\nDead Weight\r\n\r\nThe marks on his flesh zigzagged train tracks\r\nRolled over under his veins,\r\nNodding feverishly I saw his glimmer of hope\r\nTransfer to my smile,\r\nHis life had been one long dream sleeping\r\nQuietly in the back of his mind\r\nSurfacing only in time to fall asleep again,\r\nSipping on coffee I could taste the materials\r\nOf shopping centres between my teeth,\r\nLooking at him I questioned our addictions.\r\n\r\nScent\r\n\r\nSuch a strange child inward hands did face\r\nFloss entwined around a loose tooth\r\nShe dreamt of Japan once,\r\nSaid she’d been there in another life\r\nThe devils got her good\r\nStruck her down still sleeping,\r\nShe talks of the skulls sensing a danger\r\nFalling down before her eyes,\r\nShe inhales the scent of blossom\r\nCarrying them into her lungs\r\nIn the morning when she awakes\r\nShe remembers nothing of her starving times\r\nKeeping quarrels neatly filed in secrecy,\r\nNow flushed cheeks seem renewed\r\nHer eyes light with halogen lamps.\r\n\r\nEvery Morning on the Train\r\n\r\nMaking the shadows long\r\nThis train led you away\r\nIn a place you no longer call your home\r\nSmoked in silence windows blurred\r\nBy the transience of the outside,\r\n\r\nOn the opposite seat her skin milky white\r\nDraws your eyes lower to her leg\r\nShe prostitutes a little flesh\r\nMapping out veins on her arm,\r\n\r\nThe eye’s of others pretend not to see\r\nTracing fingers on the ‘x’ marked graffiti\r\nWhile in your dreams you place\r\nA helmet on her head and\r\nSave her from this waste.','Faces In The Storm Excerpt',0,'','inherit','open','open','','22-revision-7','','','2008-11-23 15:27:52','2008-11-23 15:27:52','',22,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(41,1,'2008-11-26 21:17:34','2008-11-26 21:17:34','\r\n\r\nFaces In The Storm is ........XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXx\r\n\r\nFaces In The Storm is published through Ginninderra Press and is officially available from the 16th of December 2008. Copies of the book can be ordered online or found at select book stores.\r\n\r\nBelow is an excerpt from the book.\r\n\r\nAnatomy of the Ocean\r\n\r\nIf the ocean was the water inside our body\r\nThen 90% would be salt dried and possibly cloudless\r\nSea sickness would became the joker,\r\nIn an intolerable vessel balancing a derelict plain\r\nOur throats bright pink would cry with thirst\r\nWooden skiffs our tonsils,\r\nOur skin suffocating showing no signs of desire\r\nA kiss another burning sand hill,\r\nEach bay another hand or finger a lost fugitive\r\nThis salt tongue would have to swallow its pride\r\nThe eternals of a dry land.\r\n br> br>\r\nAll Summer Long\r\n\r\nFeeling the constraints of light\r\nSunning warm by the window sill\r\nAging in a silent vigil,\r\nThirst for water holding the tongue\r\nIn a ritual of begging and worship\r\nEuphoric heat, stimulus for another\r\nStrange dream where the matador\r\nBecomes the bull cloaked red and\r\nDry mouthed, this yearning till\r\nThe afternoon lets go to night.\r\nAnd the sweat lightly dries seeping\r\nInto cracks and sculptured shadows\r\nWrestle deep into the after hours.\r\n\r\nOld Graves\r\n\r\nThink about the mine shafts\r\nEast wind, blazing heat,\r\nDistance of the colony, dug out bunkers,\r\nDehydrate, Hydrate\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about cogs spinning, west wind,\r\nSharp contrast, gold rush declines, hunger\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about the drunken brawlers, northern sky,\r\nAbandoned railways, quest for local residents\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nLittle eating,\r\nPoor crops,\r\nDwindling gold yields,\r\nLoss of land,\r\nDeserted plains,\r\nWatering holes, visitors rest and the dead.\r\n\r\nDead Weight\r\n\r\nThe marks on his flesh zigzagged train tracks\r\nRolled over under his veins,\r\nNodding feverishly I saw his glimmer of hope\r\nTransfer to my smile,\r\nHis life had been one long dream sleeping\r\nQuietly in the back of his mind\r\nSurfacing only in time to fall asleep again,\r\nSipping on coffee I could taste the materials\r\nOf shopping centres between my teeth,\r\nLooking at him I questioned our addictions.\r\n\r\nScent\r\n\r\nSuch a strange child inward hands did face\r\nFloss entwined around a loose tooth\r\nShe dreamt of Japan once,\r\nSaid she’d been there in another life\r\nThe devils got her good\r\nStruck her down still sleeping,\r\nShe talks of the skulls sensing a danger\r\nFalling down before her eyes,\r\nShe inhales the scent of blossom\r\nCarrying them into her lungs\r\nIn the morning when she awakes\r\nShe remembers nothing of her starving times\r\nKeeping quarrels neatly filed in secrecy,\r\nNow flushed cheeks seem renewed\r\nHer eyes light with halogen lamps.\r\n\r\nEvery Morning on the Train\r\n\r\nMaking the shadows long\r\nThis train led you away\r\nIn a place you no longer call your home\r\nSmoked in silence windows blurred\r\nBy the transience of the outside,\r\n\r\nOn the opposite seat her skin milky white\r\nDraws your eyes lower to her leg\r\nShe prostitutes a little flesh\r\nMapping out veins on her arm,\r\n\r\nThe eye’s of others pretend not to see\r\nTracing fingers on the ‘x’ marked graffiti\r\nWhile in your dreams you place\r\nA helmet on her head and\r\nSave her from this waste.','Faces In The Storm Excerpt',0,'','inherit','open','open','','22-revision-8','','','2008-11-26 21:17:34','2008-11-26 21:17:34','',22,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(42,1,'2008-11-26 21:18:24','2008-11-26 21:18:24','\r\n\r\nFaces In The Storm is ........XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\r\nXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\r\nXXXXXXXXx\r\n\r\nFaces In The Storm is published through Ginninderra Press and is officially available from the 16th of December 2008. Copies of the book can be ordered online or found at select book stores.\r\n\r\nBelow is an excerpt from the book.\r\n\r\nAnatomy of the Ocean\r\n\r\nIf the ocean was the water inside our body\r\nThen 90% would be salt dried and possibly cloudless\r\nSea sickness would became the joker,\r\nIn an intolerable vessel balancing a derelict plain\r\nOur throats bright pink would cry with thirst\r\nWooden skiffs our tonsils,\r\nOur skin suffocating showing no signs of desire\r\nA kiss another burning sand hill,\r\nEach bay another hand or finger a lost fugitive\r\nThis salt tongue would have to swallow its pride\r\nThe eternals of a dry land.\r\n br>\r\n br>\r\n br>\r\nAll Summer Long\r\n\r\nFeeling the constraints of light\r\nSunning warm by the window sill\r\nAging in a silent vigil,\r\nThirst for water holding the tongue\r\nIn a ritual of begging and worship\r\nEuphoric heat, stimulus for another\r\nStrange dream where the matador\r\nBecomes the bull cloaked red and\r\nDry mouthed, this yearning till\r\nThe afternoon lets go to night.\r\nAnd the sweat lightly dries seeping\r\nInto cracks and sculptured shadows\r\nWrestle deep into the after hours.\r\n\r\nOld Graves\r\n\r\nThink about the mine shafts\r\nEast wind, blazing heat,\r\nDistance of the colony, dug out bunkers,\r\nDehydrate, Hydrate\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about cogs spinning, west wind,\r\nSharp contrast, gold rush declines, hunger\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about the drunken brawlers, northern sky,\r\nAbandoned railways, quest for local residents\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nLittle eating,\r\nPoor crops,\r\nDwindling gold yields,\r\nLoss of land,\r\nDeserted plains,\r\nWatering holes, visitors rest and the dead.\r\n\r\nDead Weight\r\n\r\nThe marks on his flesh zigzagged train tracks\r\nRolled over under his veins,\r\nNodding feverishly I saw his glimmer of hope\r\nTransfer to my smile,\r\nHis life had been one long dream sleeping\r\nQuietly in the back of his mind\r\nSurfacing only in time to fall asleep again,\r\nSipping on coffee I could taste the materials\r\nOf shopping centres between my teeth,\r\nLooking at him I questioned our addictions.\r\n\r\nScent\r\n\r\nSuch a strange child inward hands did face\r\nFloss entwined around a loose tooth\r\nShe dreamt of Japan once,\r\nSaid she’d been there in another life\r\nThe devils got her good\r\nStruck her down still sleeping,\r\nShe talks of the skulls sensing a danger\r\nFalling down before her eyes,\r\nShe inhales the scent of blossom\r\nCarrying them into her lungs\r\nIn the morning when she awakes\r\nShe remembers nothing of her starving times\r\nKeeping quarrels neatly filed in secrecy,\r\nNow flushed cheeks seem renewed\r\nHer eyes light with halogen lamps.\r\n\r\nEvery Morning on the Train\r\n\r\nMaking the shadows long\r\nThis train led you away\r\nIn a place you no longer call your home\r\nSmoked in silence windows blurred\r\nBy the transience of the outside,\r\n\r\nOn the opposite seat her skin milky white\r\nDraws your eyes lower to her leg\r\nShe prostitutes a little flesh\r\nMapping out veins on her arm,\r\n\r\nThe eye’s of others pretend not to see\r\nTracing fingers on the ‘x’ marked graffiti\r\nWhile in your dreams you place\r\nA helmet on her head and\r\nSave her from this waste.','Faces In The Storm Excerpt',0,'','inherit','open','open','','22-revision-9','','','2008-11-26 21:18:24','2008-11-26 21:18:24','',22,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(43,1,'2008-11-23 15:04:58','2008-11-23 15:04:58','Published Poetry\r\n\r\nLilac Tree\r\nPixel papers (issue 25) Jan 2004\r\n\r\nA Grain of Sand\r\nMarginata March 2004\r\n\r\nOn a hill is a Temple\r\nBlack Bird Ballad\r\nPixel papers (issue 27) April 2004\r\n\r\nScintilla Flames\r\nWild Fire Magazine (winter edition) 2004\r\n\r\nCircle and Fold\r\nWild Fire Online 2004\r\n\r\nSeven Whistlers\r\nPixel Papers (issue 29) 2004\r\n\r\nThe Only Guitar\r\nFalling star Magazine (American Winter Issue) 2004\r\n\r\nChasing Germaine\r\nGathering stones\r\nRed Centre\r\nAustralian Reader Review (Dec) 2004\r\n\r\nSolar System\r\nRed Booth review Online (Issue 15) 2004\r\nRed Booth Review Annual Literary Magazine \"Wrong Again\" Dec 2004\r\n\r\nAgent Orange\r\nPulsar Poetry Magazine (10th edition) Ligden Poetry Society UK Dec 2004\r\n\r\nHearts and Diamonds\r\nJail Baby\r\nIris\r\nKen*again Literary ezine (American winter edition) 2004/2005\r\n\r\nCrossing Paths\r\nAnother Sleepless night\r\nPixel Papers (Issue 30) Jan 2005\r\n\r\nLake and Pool\r\nDragon Fly\r\nPersistent mirage (Issue One) Feb 2005\r\n\r\nTurning to Alchemy\r\nThe Devil has a Song\r\nKen*again (American Fall edition) 2005\r\n\r\nSouth of the Nile\r\nMoon Wort Review 2005\r\n\r\nGrowing Pains\r\nAll Things Die\r\nAustralian Reader Review 2005\r\n\r\nWhen she calls our name\r\nAncient Heart UK (may Issue) 2005\r\n\r\nHillside in Delhi\r\nLast Supper\r\nPixel Papers (issue 33) Oct 2005 \r\n\r\nTurning In\r\nDiary of a Claustrophobic\r\nWhen Bella Came Last\r\nThick with Conviction (Issue two) Jan 2006\r\n\r\nTalking to Laura\r\nBaby Clam Press (Issue Two) 2006\r\n\r\nThe Last Good Fisherman\r\nTryst Literary Magazine 2006\r\n\r\nAfrican Soloist\r\nTravels through Serbia\r\nHome of Blues\r\nTake a stand\r\nSun Rising Press (Katrina Anthology) hard cover book\r\n\"Washing the Color of Water Golden\" 2006\r\n\r\nSolar System\r\n\r\nRed Booth Review 2004\r\n\r\nSouth of the Nile\r\nMoon Wort Review 2005\r\n\r\nThe Last Nomad\r\nThe Word is Out (issue Two) September 2006\r\n\r\nFaces in the Storm\r\nPoetry book published by Ginninderra press ( December 2008)','Published Works',0,'','inherit','open','open','','31-revision-4','','','2008-11-23 15:04:58','2008-11-23 15:04:58','',31,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(44,1,'2008-11-16 02:50:12','2008-11-16 02:50:12','','Contact',0,'','inherit','open','open','','4-revision','','','2008-11-16 02:50:12','2008-11-16 02:50:12','',4,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(45,1,'2008-11-26 21:44:07','2008-11-26 21:44:07','Contact Yvette\r\n\r\n\r\n','Contact',0,'','inherit','open','open','','4-revision-2','','','2008-11-26 21:44:07','2008-11-26 21:44:07','',4,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(46,1,'2008-11-26 21:47:40','2008-11-26 21:47:40','Contact Yvette\r\n\r\n\r\n','Contact',0,'','inherit','open','open','','4-revision-3','','','2008-11-26 21:47:40','2008-11-26 21:47:40','',4,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(47,1,'2008-11-26 22:10:06','2008-11-26 22:10:06','Contact Yvette\r\n\r\n[wpcf]\r\n\r\n\r\n','Contact',0,'','inherit','open','open','','4-revision-4','','','2008-11-26 22:10:06','2008-11-26 22:10:06','',4,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(48,1,'2008-12-02 00:28:34','2008-12-02 00:28:34','Originally trained as a dancer Yvette was inspired to choreograph dances based on poetry and art, over time she found her passion for writing exceeded her passion for dancing.\n\nYvette has been writing poetry for over fifteen years and her work has been published in several Australian magazines as well as many U.S. and U.K magazines and journals such as The Word is Out, Pixel Papers, Pulsar Poetry Magazine, Red Booth Review, Falling Star Magazine, Ancient Heart, Ken*again, Moonwort Review, Tryst, Thick with Conviction, Baby Clam press. Yvette has had a collection of poetry published with Sun Rising Poetry Press in the Hurricane Katrina Anthology ‘Washing the Color of Water Golden’.\n\nHer first published book of poetry Faces In The Storm will see release through Ginninderra Press on the 16th of December, 2008.\n\nIn recent years Yvette has collaborated as writer for several contemporary art works, one of which, “The Little Optimum”, exhibited as part of the 2006 Perth International Arts Festival.\n\nYvette is in the process of writing a novel which is due for completion in the latter part of 2009.','About',0,'','inherit','open','open','','2-autosave','','','2008-12-02 00:28:34','2008-12-02 00:28:34','',2,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(49,1,'2008-11-16 02:49:47','2008-11-16 02:49:47','Originally trained as a dancer I was inspired to choreograph dances based on poetry and art, over time I found my passion for writing exceeded my passion for dancing.\r\n\r\nI have been writing poetry for over fifteen years and my work has been published in several Australian magazines as well as many U.S. and U.K magazines and journals such as The word is out, Pixel papers, Pulsar Poetry Magazine, Red Booth Review, Falling Star Magazine, Ancient Heart, Ken*again, Moonwort Review, Tryst, Thick with Conviction, Baby Clam press. I have had a collection of poetry published with Sun Rising Poetry Press in the Hurricane Katrina Anthology ‘Washing the Color of Water Golden’. \r\n\r\nIn recent years I have collaborated as writer for several contemporary art works, one of which, “The Little Optimum”, exhibited as part of the 2006 Perth International Arts Festival.\r\n\r\nI am in the process of writing a novel which is due for completion in the latter part of 2009.','About',0,'','inherit','open','open','','2-revision-2','','','2008-11-16 02:49:47','2008-11-16 02:49:47','',2,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(50,1,'2008-11-26 21:19:29','2008-11-26 21:19:29','\r\n\r\nFaces In The Storm is ........XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\r\nXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\r\nXXXXXXXXx\r\n\r\nFaces In The Storm is published through Ginninderra Press and is officially available from the 16th of December 2008. Copies of the book can be ordered online or found at select book stores.\r\n\r\nBelow is an excerpt from the book.\r\n br>\r\n br>\r\nAnatomy of the Ocean\r\n\r\nIf the ocean was the water inside our body\r\nThen 90% would be salt dried and possibly cloudless\r\nSea sickness would became the joker,\r\nIn an intolerable vessel balancing a derelict plain\r\nOur throats bright pink would cry with thirst\r\nWooden skiffs our tonsils,\r\nOur skin suffocating showing no signs of desire\r\nA kiss another burning sand hill,\r\nEach bay another hand or finger a lost fugitive\r\nThis salt tongue would have to swallow its pride\r\nThe eternals of a dry land.\r\n br>\r\n br>\r\n\r\nAll Summer Long\r\n\r\nFeeling the constraints of light\r\nSunning warm by the window sill\r\nAging in a silent vigil,\r\nThirst for water holding the tongue\r\nIn a ritual of begging and worship\r\nEuphoric heat, stimulus for another\r\nStrange dream where the matador\r\nBecomes the bull cloaked red and\r\nDry mouthed, this yearning till\r\nThe afternoon lets go to night.\r\nAnd the sweat lightly dries seeping\r\nInto cracks and sculptured shadows\r\nWrestle deep into the after hours.\r\n br>\r\n br>\r\n\r\nOld Graves\r\n\r\nThink about the mine shafts\r\nEast wind, blazing heat,\r\nDistance of the colony, dug out bunkers,\r\nDehydrate, Hydrate\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about cogs spinning, west wind,\r\nSharp contrast, gold rush declines, hunger\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about the drunken brawlers, northern sky,\r\nAbandoned railways, quest for local residents\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nLittle eating,\r\nPoor crops,\r\nDwindling gold yields,\r\nLoss of land,\r\nDeserted plains,\r\nWatering holes, visitors rest and the dead.\r\n br>\r\n br>\r\n\r\nDead Weight\r\n\r\nThe marks on his flesh zigzagged train tracks\r\nRolled over under his veins,\r\nNodding feverishly I saw his glimmer of hope\r\nTransfer to my smile,\r\nHis life had been one long dream sleeping\r\nQuietly in the back of his mind\r\nSurfacing only in time to fall asleep again,\r\nSipping on coffee I could taste the materials\r\nOf shopping centres between my teeth,\r\nLooking at him I questioned our addictions.\r\n br>\r\n br>\r\n\r\nScent\r\n\r\nSuch a strange child inward hands did face\r\nFloss entwined around a loose tooth\r\nShe dreamt of Japan once,\r\nSaid she’d been there in another life\r\nThe devils got her good\r\nStruck her down still sleeping,\r\nShe talks of the skulls sensing a danger\r\nFalling down before her eyes,\r\nShe inhales the scent of blossom\r\nCarrying them into her lungs\r\nIn the morning when she awakes\r\nShe remembers nothing of her starving times\r\nKeeping quarrels neatly filed in secrecy,\r\nNow flushed cheeks seem renewed\r\nHer eyes light with halogen lamps.\r\n br>\r\n br>\r\n\r\nEvery Morning on the Train\r\n\r\nMaking the shadows long\r\nThis train led you away\r\nIn a place you no longer call your home\r\nSmoked in silence windows blurred\r\nBy the transience of the outside,\r\n\r\nOn the opposite seat her skin milky white\r\nDraws your eyes lower to her leg\r\nShe prostitutes a little flesh\r\nMapping out veins on her arm,\r\n\r\nThe eye’s of others pretend not to see\r\nTracing fingers on the ‘x’ marked graffiti\r\nWhile in your dreams you place\r\nA helmet on her head and\r\nSave her from this waste.','Faces In The Storm Excerpt',0,'','inherit','open','open','','22-revision-10','','','2008-11-26 21:19:29','2008-11-26 21:19:29','',22,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(51,1,'2008-11-28 15:39:04','2008-11-28 15:39:04','Faces In The Storm is book of poetry published through Ginninderra Press. The work is a meditation on the shapes and impressions left behind after both the subtle and ravaging storms we face as human beings.\r\n\r\nFaces In The Storm is is officially available through Ginninderra Press from the 16th of December 2008. Copies of the book can be ordered online or found at select book stores.\r\n\r\nBelow is an excerpt from the book.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nAnatomy of the Ocean\r\n\r\nIf the ocean was the water inside our body\r\nThen 90% would be salt dried and possibly cloudless\r\nSea sickness would became the joker,\r\nIn an intolerable vessel balancing a derelict plain\r\nOur throats bright pink would cry with thirst\r\nWooden skiffs our tonsils,\r\nOur skin suffocating showing no signs of desire\r\nA kiss another burning sand hill,\r\nEach bay another hand or finger a lost fugitive\r\nThis salt tongue would have to swallow its pride\r\nThe eternals of a dry land.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nAll Summer Long\r\n\r\nFeeling the constraints of light\r\nSunning warm by the window sill\r\nAging in a silent vigil,\r\nThirst for water holding the tongue\r\nIn a ritual of begging and worship\r\nEuphoric heat, stimulus for another\r\nStrange dream where the matador\r\nBecomes the bull cloaked red and\r\nDry mouthed, this yearning till\r\nThe afternoon lets go to night.\r\nAnd the sweat lightly dries seeping\r\nInto cracks and sculptured shadows\r\nWrestle deep into the after hours.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nOld Graves\r\n\r\nThink about the mine shafts\r\nEast wind, blazing heat,\r\nDistance of the colony, dug out bunkers,\r\nDehydrate, Hydrate\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about cogs spinning, west wind,\r\nSharp contrast, gold rush declines, hunger\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about the drunken brawlers, northern sky,\r\nAbandoned railways, quest for local residents\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nLittle eating,\r\nPoor crops,\r\nDwindling gold yields,\r\nLoss of land,\r\nDeserted plains,\r\nWatering holes, visitors rest and the dead.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nDead Weight\r\n\r\nThe marks on his flesh zigzagged train tracks\r\nRolled over under his veins,\r\nNodding feverishly I saw his glimmer of hope\r\nTransfer to my smile,\r\nHis life had been one long dream sleeping\r\nQuietly in the back of his mind\r\nSurfacing only in time to fall asleep again,\r\nSipping on coffee I could taste the materials\r\nOf shopping centres between my teeth,\r\nLooking at him I questioned our addictions.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nScent\r\n\r\nSuch a strange child inward hands did face\r\nFloss entwined around a loose tooth\r\nShe dreamt of Japan once,\r\nSaid she’d been there in another life\r\nThe devils got her good\r\nStruck her down still sleeping,\r\nShe talks of the skulls sensing a danger\r\nFalling down before her eyes,\r\nShe inhales the scent of blossom\r\nCarrying them into her lungs\r\nIn the morning when she awakes\r\nShe remembers nothing of her starving times\r\nKeeping quarrels neatly filed in secrecy,\r\nNow flushed cheeks seem renewed\r\nHer eyes light with halogen lamps.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nEvery Morning on the Train\r\n\r\nMaking the shadows long\r\nThis train led you away\r\nIn a place you no longer call your home\r\nSmoked in silence windows blurred\r\nBy the transience of the outside,\r\n\r\nOn the opposite seat her skin milky white\r\nDraws your eyes lower to her leg\r\nShe prostitutes a little flesh\r\nMapping out veins on her arm,\r\n\r\nThe eye’s of others pretend not to see\r\nTracing fingers on the ‘x’ marked graffiti\r\nWhile in your dreams you place\r\nA helmet on her head and\r\nSave her from this waste.','Faces In The Storm Excerpt',0,'','inherit','open','open','','22-revision-11','','','2008-11-28 15:39:04','2008-11-28 15:39:04','',22,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(52,1,'2008-11-28 15:39:47','2008-11-28 15:39:47','Faces In The Storm is book of poetry published through Ginninderra Press. The work is a meditation on the shapes and impressions left behind after both the subtle and ravaging storms we face as human beings.\r\n\r\nFaces In The Storm is is officially available through Ginninderra Press from the 16th of December 2008. Copies of the book can be ordered online or found at select book stores.\r\n\r\nBelow is an excerpt from the book.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nAnatomy of the Ocean\r\n\r\nIf the ocean was the water inside our body\r\nThen 90% would be salt dried and possibly cloudless\r\nSea sickness would became the joker,\r\nIn an intolerable vessel balancing a derelict plain\r\nOur throats bright pink would cry with thirst\r\nWooden skiffs our tonsils,\r\nOur skin suffocating showing no signs of desire\r\nA kiss another burning sand hill,\r\nEach bay another hand or finger a lost fugitive\r\nThis salt tongue would have to swallow its pride\r\nThe eternals of a dry land.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nAll Summer Long\r\n\r\nFeeling the constraints of light\r\nSunning warm by the window sill\r\nAging in a silent vigil,\r\nThirst for water holding the tongue\r\nIn a ritual of begging and worship\r\nEuphoric heat, stimulus for another\r\nStrange dream where the matador\r\nBecomes the bull cloaked red and\r\nDry mouthed, this yearning till\r\nThe afternoon lets go to night.\r\nAnd the sweat lightly dries seeping\r\nInto cracks and sculptured shadows\r\nWrestle deep into the after hours.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nOld Graves\r\n\r\nThink about the mine shafts\r\nEast wind, blazing heat,\r\nDistance of the colony, dug out bunkers,\r\nDehydrate, Hydrate\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about cogs spinning, west wind,\r\nSharp contrast, gold rush declines, hunger\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about the drunken brawlers, northern sky,\r\nAbandoned railways, quest for local residents\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nLittle eating,\r\nPoor crops,\r\nDwindling gold yields,\r\nLoss of land,\r\nDeserted plains,\r\nWatering holes, visitors rest and the dead.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nDead Weight\r\n\r\nThe marks on his flesh zigzagged train tracks\r\nRolled over under his veins,\r\nNodding feverishly I saw his glimmer of hope\r\nTransfer to my smile,\r\nHis life had been one long dream sleeping\r\nQuietly in the back of his mind\r\nSurfacing only in time to fall asleep again,\r\nSipping on coffee I could taste the materials\r\nOf shopping centres between my teeth,\r\nLooking at him I questioned our addictions.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nScent\r\n\r\nSuch a strange child inward hands did face\r\nFloss entwined around a loose tooth\r\nShe dreamt of Japan once,\r\nSaid she’d been there in another life\r\nThe devils got her good\r\nStruck her down still sleeping,\r\nShe talks of the skulls sensing a danger\r\nFalling down before her eyes,\r\nShe inhales the scent of blossom\r\nCarrying them into her lungs\r\nIn the morning when she awakes\r\nShe remembers nothing of her starving times\r\nKeeping quarrels neatly filed in secrecy,\r\nNow flushed cheeks seem renewed\r\nHer eyes light with halogen lamps.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nEvery Morning on the Train\r\n\r\nMaking the shadows long\r\nThis train led you away\r\nIn a place you no longer call your home\r\nSmoked in silence windows blurred\r\nBy the transience of the outside,\r\n\r\nOn the opposite seat her skin milky white\r\nDraws your eyes lower to her leg\r\nShe prostitutes a little flesh\r\nMapping out veins on her arm,\r\n\r\nThe eye’s of others pretend not to see\r\nTracing fingers on the ‘x’ marked graffiti\r\nWhile in your dreams you place\r\nA helmet on her head and\r\nSave her from this waste.','Faces In The Storm Excerpt',0,'','inherit','open','open','','22-revision-12','','','2008-11-28 15:39:47','2008-11-28 15:39:47','',22,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(53,1,'2008-11-28 15:41:02','2008-11-28 15:41:02','Faces In The Storm is book of poetry published through Ginninderra Press. The work is a meditation on the shapes and impressions left behind after both the subtle and ravaging storms we face as human beings.\r\n\r\nFaces In The Storm is is officially available through Ginninderra Press from the 16th of December 2008. Copies of the book can be ordered online or found at select book stores.\r\n\r\nBelow is an excerpt from the book.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nAnatomy of the Ocean\r\n\r\nIf the ocean was the water inside our body\r\nThen 90% would be salt dried and possibly cloudless\r\nSea sickness would became the joker,\r\nIn an intolerable vessel balancing a derelict plain\r\nOur throats bright pink would cry with thirst\r\nWooden skiffs our tonsils,\r\nOur skin suffocating showing no signs of desire\r\nA kiss another burning sand hill,\r\nEach bay another hand or finger a lost fugitive\r\nThis salt tongue would have to swallow its pride\r\nThe eternals of a dry land.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nAll Summer Long\r\n\r\nFeeling the constraints of light\r\nSunning warm by the window sill\r\nAging in a silent vigil,\r\nThirst for water holding the tongue\r\nIn a ritual of begging and worship\r\nEuphoric heat, stimulus for another\r\nStrange dream where the matador\r\nBecomes the bull cloaked red and\r\nDry mouthed, this yearning till\r\nThe afternoon lets go to night.\r\nAnd the sweat lightly dries seeping\r\nInto cracks and sculptured shadows\r\nWrestle deep into the after hours.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nOld Graves\r\n\r\nThink about the mine shafts\r\nEast wind, blazing heat,\r\nDistance of the colony, dug out bunkers,\r\nDehydrate, Hydrate\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about cogs spinning, west wind,\r\nSharp contrast, gold rush declines, hunger\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about the drunken brawlers, northern sky,\r\nAbandoned railways, quest for local residents\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nLittle eating,\r\nPoor crops,\r\nDwindling gold yields,\r\nLoss of land,\r\nDeserted plains,\r\nWatering holes, visitors rest and the dead.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nDead Weight\r\n\r\nThe marks on his flesh zigzagged train tracks\r\nRolled over under his veins,\r\nNodding feverishly I saw his glimmer of hope\r\nTransfer to my smile,\r\nHis life had been one long dream sleeping\r\nQuietly in the back of his mind\r\nSurfacing only in time to fall asleep again,\r\nSipping on coffee I could taste the materials\r\nOf shopping centres between my teeth,\r\nLooking at him I questioned our addictions.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nScent\r\n\r\nSuch a strange child inward hands did face\r\nFloss entwined around a loose tooth\r\nShe dreamt of Japan once,\r\nSaid she’d been there in another life\r\nThe devils got her good\r\nStruck her down still sleeping,\r\nShe talks of the skulls sensing a danger\r\nFalling down before her eyes,\r\nShe inhales the scent of blossom\r\nCarrying them into her lungs\r\nIn the morning when she awakes\r\nShe remembers nothing of her starving times\r\nKeeping quarrels neatly filed in secrecy,\r\nNow flushed cheeks seem renewed\r\nHer eyes light with halogen lamps.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nEvery Morning on the Train\r\n\r\nMaking the shadows long\r\nThis train led you away\r\nIn a place you no longer call your home\r\nSmoked in silence windows blurred\r\nBy the transience of the outside,\r\n\r\nOn the opposite seat her skin milky white\r\nDraws your eyes lower to her leg\r\nShe prostitutes a little flesh\r\nMapping out veins on her arm,\r\n\r\nThe eye’s of others pretend not to see\r\nTracing fingers on the ‘x’ marked graffiti\r\nWhile in your dreams you place\r\nA helmet on her head and\r\nSave her from this waste.','Faces In The Storm Excerpt',0,'','inherit','open','open','','22-revision-13','','','2008-11-28 15:41:02','2008-11-28 15:41:02','',22,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(54,1,'2008-11-28 15:41:37','2008-11-28 15:41:37','Faces In The Storm is book of poetry published through Ginninderra Press. The work is a meditation on the shapes and impressions left behind after both the subtle and ravaging storms we face as human beings.\r\n\r\nFaces In The Storm is is officially available through Ginninderra Press from the 16th of December 2008. Copies of the book can be ordered online or found at select book stores.\r\n\r\nBelow is an excerpt from the book.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nAnatomy of the Ocean\r\n\r\nIf the ocean was the water inside our body\r\nThen 90% would be salt dried and possibly cloudless\r\nSea sickness would became the joker,\r\nIn an intolerable vessel balancing a derelict plain\r\nOur throats bright pink would cry with thirst\r\nWooden skiffs our tonsils,\r\nOur skin suffocating showing no signs of desire\r\nA kiss another burning sand hill,\r\nEach bay another hand or finger a lost fugitive\r\nThis salt tongue would have to swallow its pride\r\nThe eternals of a dry land.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nAll Summer Long\r\n\r\nFeeling the constraints of light\r\nSunning warm by the window sill\r\nAging in a silent vigil,\r\nThirst for water holding the tongue\r\nIn a ritual of begging and worship\r\nEuphoric heat, stimulus for another\r\nStrange dream where the matador\r\nBecomes the bull cloaked red and\r\nDry mouthed, this yearning till\r\nThe afternoon lets go to night.\r\nAnd the sweat lightly dries seeping\r\nInto cracks and sculptured shadows\r\nWrestle deep into the after hours.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nOld Graves\r\n\r\nThink about the mine shafts\r\nEast wind, blazing heat,\r\nDistance of the colony, dug out bunkers,\r\nDehydrate, Hydrate\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about cogs spinning, west wind,\r\nSharp contrast, gold rush declines, hunger\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nThink about the drunken brawlers, northern sky,\r\nAbandoned railways, quest for local residents\r\n\r\nKeep walking…\r\n\r\nLittle eating,\r\nPoor crops,\r\nDwindling gold yields,\r\nLoss of land,\r\nDeserted plains,\r\nWatering holes, visitors rest and the dead.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nDead Weight\r\n\r\nThe marks on his flesh zigzagged train tracks\r\nRolled over under his veins,\r\nNodding feverishly I saw his glimmer of hope\r\nTransfer to my smile,\r\nHis life had been one long dream sleeping\r\nQuietly in the back of his mind\r\nSurfacing only in time to fall asleep again,\r\nSipping on coffee I could taste the materials\r\nOf shopping centres between my teeth,\r\nLooking at him I questioned our addictions.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nScent\r\n\r\nSuch a strange child inward hands did face\r\nFloss entwined around a loose tooth\r\nShe dreamt of Japan once,\r\nSaid she’d been there in another life\r\nThe devils got her good\r\nStruck her down still sleeping,\r\nShe talks of the skulls sensing a danger\r\nFalling down before her eyes,\r\nShe inhales the scent of blossom\r\nCarrying them into her lungs\r\nIn the morning when she awakes\r\nShe remembers nothing of her starving times\r\nKeeping quarrels neatly filed in secrecy,\r\nNow flushed cheeks seem renewed\r\nHer eyes light with halogen lamps.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nEvery Morning on the Train\r\n\r\nMaking the shadows long\r\nThis train led you away\r\nIn a place you no longer call your home\r\nSmoked in silence windows blurred\r\nBy the transience of the outside,\r\n\r\nOn the opposite seat her skin milky white\r\nDraws your eyes lower to her leg\r\nShe prostitutes a little flesh\r\nMapping out veins on her arm,\r\n\r\nThe eye’s of others pretend not to see\r\nTracing fingers on the ‘x’ marked graffiti\r\nWhile in your dreams you place\r\nA helmet on her head and\r\nSave her from this waste.','Faces In The Storm Excerpt',0,'','inherit','open','open','','22-revision-14','','','2008-11-28 15:41:37','2008-11-28 15:41:37','',22,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(55,1,'2008-12-02 00:14:58','2008-12-02 00:14:58','','',0,'','publish','open','open','','55','','','2008-12-02 00:14:58','2008-12-02 00:14:58','',0,'http://yvettemerton.com/55',0,'page','',0),(56,1,'2008-12-02 00:17:39','2008-12-02 00:17:39','','',0,'','inherit','open','open','','55-autosave','','','2008-12-02 00:17:39','2008-12-02 00:17:39','',55,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(57,1,'2008-11-28 15:12:26','2008-11-28 15:12:26','Originally trained as a dancer Yvette was inspired to choreograph dances based on poetry and art, over time she found her passion for writing exceeded her passion for dancing.\r\n\r\nYvette has been writing poetry for over fifteen years and her work has been published in several Australian magazines as well as many U.S. and U.K magazines and journals such as The Word is Out, Pixel Papers, Pulsar Poetry Magazine, Red Booth Review, Falling Star Magazine, Ancient Heart, Ken*again, Moonwort Review, Tryst, Thick with Conviction, Baby Clam press. Yvette has had a collection of poetry published with Sun Rising Poetry Press in the Hurricane Katrina Anthology ‘Washing the Color of Water Golden’.\r\n\r\nHer first published book of poetry Faces In The Storm will see release through Ginninderra Press on the 16th of December, 2008.\r\n\r\nIn recent years Yvette has collaborated as writer for several contemporary art works, one of which, “The Little Optimum”, exhibited as part of the 2006 Perth International Arts Festival.\r\n\r\nYvette is in the process of writing a novel which is due for completion in the latter part of 2009.','About',0,'','inherit','open','open','','2-revision-3','','','2008-11-28 15:12:26','2008-11-28 15:12:26','',2,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/',0,'revision','',0),(58,1,'2014-05-12 06:26:17','0000-00-00 00:00:00','','Auto Draft',0,'','auto-draft','open','open','','','','','2014-05-12 06:26:17','0000-00-00 00:00:00','',0,'http://yvettemerton.com/?p=58',0,'post','',0),(59,1,'2008-11-26 14:51:04','2008-11-26 14:51:04','African Solo by Yvette Merton\r\n\r\nYoung girl crouches outside under parched sun,\r\nshe scrapes the skin of the oats from the\r\nbottom of the pan.\r\nshe eats from its spilling as it slides through\r\nscrawny fingers.\r\n\r\nAfrican sky is boiling, hot dry heat, but still\r\nshe works, cooking, cleaning, removing dirt\r\nfrom blistered feet.\r\nFurrowed brow is alive with worry, vacant eyes\r\nyearn for something better she wipes the sweat\r\nfrom her face with a grubby sleeve, but things are\r\nwhat they are and she knows it.\r\n\r\nIn the village, chickens squawk, wealthier women\r\ngrace by with their swirls of coloured cloth, old men\r\nshade under sap-licked trees, the few trees there are.\r\nOnwards to market, rattan baskets balance perfectly\r\non tiny heads, wild yams pulled from the earth by\r\nfarmers sell to those who can afford it.\r\n\r\nGhetto air stirs, but the young girl crouching\r\nunder parched sun doesn’t belong, so she builds a\r\nworld behind her eyes.\r\nShe clanks the side of the pan with the remains\r\nof a wooden spoon, she becomes a soloist playing\r\nto the lyrical beat of metal on wood.\r\nDreams are all she has…\r\n\r\nConverging feet kick her sometimes, but she holds\r\nno pity for herself.\r\nNo one likes to listen, ears are shallow as caves here.\r\nChildren gather round, hands cupped waiting for a stray\r\nof fallen food, their bumping and jostling doesn’t\r\ndeter her.\r\nShe continues to beat with wooden spoon and metal pan\r\neven though the wood has splintered and her hand is cut.\r\n\r\nShe will wait till precisely the right time, then\r\nat night with the lull of evening drums,\r\ndirty earth slipping from tired feet will carry\r\nher, the soloist, and her instrument, away from\r\nthis town where she doesn’t belong.','African Solo',0,'','inherit','open','open','','17-revision-v1','','','2008-11-26 14:51:04','2008-11-26 14:51:04','',17,'http://yvettemerton.com/http:/yvettemerton.com/post-name/ ',0,'revision','',0);
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